


The Moon My Constant Mistress

by Pythia (Mythichistorian)



Category: Space: 1999, The Lotus Caves - John Christopher
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-07 14:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 84,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17962193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythichistorian/pseuds/Pythia
Summary: Life on Moonbase Alpha is driven by the human need to survive while being tempered by tragedy and loss.  Six years into their odyssey, the Alphans are still hopeful that, one day, they will find a world they can claim as their own.  But one unexpected discovery, deep beneath the Lunar surface, brings an entirely different kind of hope.  Is what they've found really what it seems?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was initially written a good few years ago. It's been languishing in my files ever since, waiting for me to find time to transfer it from hand written notes into a polished, electronic format. It was inspired by three things: the slightly mystical and thoughtful tone that 1st season Space:1999 used to such great effect, some of the conundrums that the changes made for season 2 created for series continuity, and - lastly - a somewhat obscure YA novel written by John Christopher (author of the better known Tripods trilogy).
> 
> I'd read 'The Lotus Caves' years before, and its premise had stuck in my mind. Not that long ago (2013/4) someone apparently made a TV pilot based on it, called High Moon - although it didn't get picked up as series, and I'm not entirely sure how it would have worked as one. Unless, perhaps, the writers had come to the same conclusions as I did! I haven't seen the pilot movie, so I can't claim it as an influence. This particular tale predates it by at least a decade, if not two! The book made no real attempt to explain the how, or why, of it's fantastic setting, but I've made a few suggestions in my text: like many of the strange things that befell Moonbase Alpha on its long journey, there are no clear answers. Just thoughtful speculation. 
> 
> And if some of my science appears shaky? This is a Universe where the force from exploding nuclear waste dumps was sufficient to send the Moon out of orbit and careering across the depths of space. I'm not entirely sure that the science in it follows the same rules that we think apply in ours ...

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal Log of Commander John Koenig, 329 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

_The worst thing about it?_ John Koenig thought savagely, pausing to take one final glance out of Main Mission’s windows. _There’s nothing … significant. No point. No purpose. He’s just – gone._

The complex had been finally cleared, leaving it an empty and echoing reflection of the feelings that currently haunted Alpha at every turn. Everyone was gutted. Nobody quite believed it – not even Koenig. And he’d been there. Witnessed everything. The whole senseless, stupid, ugly accident. 

_He was the best of us – and we couldn’t even bring him home …_

The Commander of Moonbase Alpha swirled the last of the amber brandy around the fragile glass in his hand and lifted it to silently toast the empty landscape that stretched before him. The lunar surface, and the man it had now claimed forever, much as its mysteries had claimed him, long ago.

_Here’s to you Victor. The Moon a harsh mistress after all. May you rest peacefully in her arms._

The brandy was a mellow fire across his tongue, and he wished he could drown himself in its flames, blotting out forever the bitter memories that he could not escape. What ifs, and if onlys – the thoughts that had been going round and round in his head for hours. Would be doing so for days.

It had been nothing but routine to begin with. A simple request, the dispatching of a monitoring team to check the series of flux monitors that Bergman had had installed alongside a narrow crevasse some seven or eight miles out from Alpha: one of the many installations he’d instigated, intending to capture as much data as he could about the sectors of space they traversed. Far enough out to avoid interference with Alpha’s systems and Eagle traffic, yet close enough to give warning should any alien energies threaten the complex. It was a request Koenig had been more than happy to meet: they were passing between systems so there was little to demand his attention beyond the routine. Most of the Alphan’s energies were focused on the relocation of the primary services to the newly built Command centre, and the opportunity to get away from the bustle had been irresistible.

So clearly irresistible that Bergman had merely thrown him an amused and knowing grin when he’d joined him and the rest of the team at the relevant airlock, suited up and ready for a stroll. The drive out in the buggies had been uneventful, and the team had been in high spirits at their unexpected taste of freedom. Even so, they’d diligently run through all the usual suit checks, along with a few that team leader Maxymiew had invented on the spot. He was an experienced surface man, an old hand at this kind of jaunt, and more than happy to assist the professor with his work. Like many on Alpha he had long regarded the older man with both affection and respect, not least because Bergman – as with many things – knew the moon and her dangers better than any man on the base.

Once they’d arrived at the crevasse, the team had worked their way along the line of monitors, downloading data packs, replacing power units, and exchanging old, and over-familiar, lunar jokes. Koenig had winced at one or two, but Bergman had merely smiled indulgently and left them to it, strolling over to stare down into the crevasse itself – a deep crack in the lunar surface that paralleled the crater wall which lay on the other side.

It was dark, of course – as dark as darkside had ever been, lit only by starlight and the absence of shadows. The team were using the buggy lights to aid them, working in pools of harsh illumination that turned the looming drop into a splash of inky blackness, a bottomless pit that gave no sense of scale or depth. Bergman had paused at the edge, his eyes turning from the vista of stars overhead to stare down into the depths. Something must have caught his eye, because he’d dropped to one knee, planting a fist into the dust so that he could lean forward for a better look.

“Found something?” Koenig remembered calling over the suit link, amused at his friend’s inevitable and insatiable curiosity. He’d been a little curious himself. They didn’t know that side of Alpha well – it had never been much more than an Eagle traversing point, and he doubted that anyone had even trod this particular patch of lunar dust before the team had installed the monitors those few short months before. He wasn’t even sure if they knew how deep the crevasse went. Victor would have known – he’d turned at Koenig’s call, a pensive, crouching figure on the edge of a mind twisting drop into blackness.

“It’s nothing, John. Just thought I glimpsed something down there – the lights reflecting off – something. But there doesn’t seem to be anything to see …”

“Chasing stardust?” Koenig had grinned. “Or looking for souvenirs? If there is anything down there, it’s probably just space debris. We’ve had enough battles fought over us, these past few months.”

“True.” Victor had nodded, starting to climb back to his feet. He’d moved with the easy grace of a man well used to lunar gravity, using impetus rather than effort, but he’d barely been halfway to upright when his suit alarm went off, cutting through the general chatter with a panicked, startling sound. Koenig had seen him react, had even caught the sudden spurt of vapour that cracked from his suit’s neck seal. Bergman had had time to flail for balance, time – barely – to throw one final, horrified glance in his friend’s direction – and then he was gone, leaving nothing but a slow descent of disturbed dust and the sound of his voice, echoing through the suit receptors.

“ _ **John!**_ ”

The power unit in Koenig’s hand had tumbled unnoticed to the ground as he’d launched himself forward in response to the sudden emergency. Instinct, training and experience collided with inevitability, turning his desperate lunge of rescue into an equally desperate balletic twist of self preservation. It had only just halted his forward momentum, dropping him, instead, right at the edge of the cliff face. He’d lain there for a heart stopping moment, staring down into the stygian darkness while debris and dust tumbled away from him.

“Victor?” he’d gasped, then, more urgently: “ _ **Victor!**_ ”

There’d been no reply, no response, no signal – nothing. Just the echo of his horrified despair lifting heads in both Main Mission and Command Centre, and sending a sudden shiver of disquiet throughout the base.

A moment later, Maxymiew’s hand had been pulling him up and away from the edge with haste. The rock face, disturbed by the impact of his weight, had crumbled, tipping yet more debris into the narrow crevasse. Dust had drifted up, like a soft plume of smoke, clouding the edges of the light, while the landslip that had birthed it fell into the darkness in an unnerving, and eerie silence.

Horror had settled over the whole group. It had taken barely seconds – and there had been nothing they could do. They had stood there for endless minutes, simply staring – caught in a shared and numbing sense of helplessness. They might have saved him, had they been able to reach him; the failure in his suit could have been patched, his air supply supplemented until a rescue Eagle could be sent to spirit him home. But that inescapable stumble, the fall into the dark, had taken him beyond all hope of help. Even if his suit had held, even if he’d somehow managed to survive that slow descent into the depths – and the cascade of rock and detritus that had followed it – there was no way that they could have reached him in time to make a difference. It would have taken too long – time he would not have had – to assemble and transport the equipment needed to safely follow his plunge into the depths. 

Eventually, his heart breaking and his soul torn with pain, Koenig had made the necessary decision, and led the team away. Some of the men had been openly weeping by then, but he’d denied himself that luxury; he’d locked his emotions deep and focused on getting the rest of them back to the questionable safety of the base. Every bump and shudder of the journey had felt like a knife blade cutting deep, and deeper still: he’d sat and prayed as each mile they’d covered dragged hope away and replaced it with aching guilt. He’d prayed that it had been quick. That the failing suit – or a shattered faceplate – had gifted his friend with a quick and final release. Because the thought that Victor might – even then – be lying, somewhere in the dark, facing a long and slow suffocation, knowing that rescue would not, _could_ not come – would haunt Koenig’s dreams for a long time to come.

He’d tried to school the thought from his mind as the buggy had twisted its way across the Lunar surface. Given time – and a chance to spare the necessary resources – they might be able to recover Bergman’s body – but he’d already decided that they would not try. The Professor would rest forever in the arms of the mistress that had claimed him so long ago. They would find no more fitting a grave, no better monument than the base he had helped to build – and no greater memorial the continued survival of the men and women it sheltered, the lives he had fought so hard to help preserve. 

_So pointless!_ Koenig winced as the fragile glass shattered under the angry clench of his fingers. Blood dripped from his thumb, and he brought it to his mouth, the taste of iron and salt mingling with the remnants of brandy on his lips. The accident – and it had been an accident, a one in one thousand mischance impossible to predict or prevent – had been caused by the simple failure of a pressure line, the moment captured by the myriad of monitoring devices that oversaw every venture beyond the safety of the base. His vital signs, the life traces fed with inevitable routine to standard monitors in Med-centre, had been lost almost concurrent with his fall – and Helena had been waiting at the airlock as Koenig and the team had returned, her eyes bright with unshed tears. The whole of Alpha was in a state of shock; the celebrations intended to mark the final transfer of central command from Main Mission to the security of Command Centre, deep below the base were already turning into a mournful wake. In time, they would find better ways to honour him, have cause to remember his life, his genius, his contribution, his friendship, and celebrate it all, but right now? Right now, the aching absence of his loss was almost too much to bear.

Koenig carefully set the broken glass down on the window sill and turned to consider the empty recesses of his command post. They echoed with memories, and he closed his eyes for a moment, summoning up an image of the place at work – then sighed and let the moment go. Command Centre would not be the same – nor anything else for that matter – without Victor there to advise and support him.

Life on Alpha would go on, of course. It was for that aim that Bergman had focused his energies, and applied his intellect. But that life would lack the richness of his presence, and it would seem less – meaningful – knowing that he would not be there to see the fruits of his labours. It was no comfort to know that Alpha was all too familiar with such tragedies; every life they had lost since Breakaway had been one too many – and this one somehow worst of all. It seemed forever since they had been forcefully torn from their Mother Earth and sent careening into the unknown; but they had survived despite everything, and they would survive this – survive and grow strong, as Victor would have wished. It was the least they could do to honour him.

His face determined, and his eyes grim, the Commander of Moonbase Alpha set his shoulders and strode from the empty rooms to face an uncertain future. Behind him, the stark landscape stretched away from the base, a place of quietness and shadow, lit only by the light of the stars. It held many secrets. Harboured many mysteries. A witness to the enigmas of hope and fate, and the strange unravelling of destinies. 

That night the Alphans would share a great many memories. But the moon would remain silent; it told no stories.


	2. Part One: Unexpected Discoveries

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Resource Team Omicron: Mission log, Year 6 - 2154 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

“I hope you’re damn well right about this,” Andi Marling growled with both effort and feeling, leaning into the drill to help keep it steady against the rockface. Behind her, her team leader and his second shared an amused grin. They’d both been cutting tunnels and mines under the moon for years – Joseph Webster had been part of the original team that had helped shape and enlarge Alpha’s hangers, while Alex Shewell had started with the excavation teams working on Area Two. They’d cut a lot of rock in the past five, six years, hacking out living space beneath Alpha and chasing mineral veins way out past her perimeters. They knew practically every inch of the labyrinth of catacombs and tunnels that wove their way under and around the Alpha base, and they knew how to track and follow even the faintest of mineral traces to the sweet promise of the mother lode. This particular tunnel – a good six miles out and at least half a mile down – had been yielding promising results. Both men were of the opinion that rich rewards lay only metres away, hidden somewhere behind the barriers of crystalline rock which they were now carefully slicing away. It didn’t hurt that each slab they excavated was going be transported back to Alpha to help construct the new hydroponics area that Koenig had authorised only a month before. The decision to extend the living facilities – hydro, recycling, and power services – alongside the matching expansion of industrial production, had been a popular one, despite, or perhaps because of, the amount of work it generated. Six years is a long time to be wandering in temporary living quarters, and the Alphans had finally decided that – even if they might have to evacuate everything at extremely short notice – there would be value in investing in something a little more … expansive. 

“Have we ever steered you wrong?” Shewell asked, carefully feeding out the power lines as Marling and the drill moved forward. She snorted in response.

“You mean _other_ than setting me up with Hichero?” The drill bucked a little and she backed up and then moved forward again, steady the long drill bit with experienced hands. “Oh – and putting my name into the lottery?”

“That was _wrong?_ ” Webster queried cheerfully. True, they hadn’t exactly asked their team mate if she minded having her name put forward for the expansion project, but she’d been agonising about the decision for weeks beforehand – and she’d been utterly delighted when she found out she’d not only been entered, but had been picked to be among the first wave. 

“You freaking kidding me?” Marling’s voice was pitched above the whine of the drill, but the warmth and joy it held was unmistakable. “It got me nine months light duty! And Yui, of course. Nothing like cradling that baby – unless it’s cradling this one. Clear!”

She stepped back, paused to wipe the sweat from her eyes, and then gently pulled the drill free from the hole she’d just made. Webster stepped forward, checked the angle with his laser marker, nodded, and then tapped the opposite side of the slab. Marling nodded back, stepping across to place the drill bit on the indicated spot; Shewell coiled the power cables back into place and tapped her arm to let her know she could start drilling again.

“Ravi’s put her name down for us,” he said, giving her cause to throw him a wry grin over her shoulder. “Course – they may not run the lottery again ‘til next year, but … I think she’s got the baby bug. She’s even started volunteering a session in the nursery.”

“ _Everyone’s_ got the baby bug,” Marling laughed. “Even the Commander. You know – I bet Dr Russell putting her name in the hat changed his mind real fast when it came to okaying the project. I heard he was dead set against it to begin with.”

“The Commander had difficult choices to make.” Webster leant over the seismograph to check the latest readout. “It’s a daily struggle to keep us safe and moving forward – and we all wanted _more_ lives on the base for him to protect? He sends men into danger almost every day – how much harder is it going to be when his son grows up, and he’s the one leading the expeditions?”

“Hey,” Marling laughed above the whine of the drill. “MV is only two months old, for Earth’s sake - and you’ve got him flying Eagles! He’s gotta get past pulling Yui’s pigtails first. We’ll have found somewhere to live long before then, right?”

“Right.” Shewell didn’t sound quite so convinced. “That’s if we don’t end up putting down roots right here. It’s a hostile universe out there, and the Moon’s done us proud so far. I’m not sure I believe in the exodus anymore.”

“Well,” Webster shrugged. “If we don’t see it, maybe our grandkids will. At least we’ll have grandkids, now that the project’s off the starting blocks. Or some of us will, anyway.” He earned himself another backwards grin from Marling – one that turned into a wary frown as the noise of the drill shifted and the bit bucked under her hands.

“Hit obsidian, I think! Or flint. Something hardcore, anyway.”

“Keep at it!” Shewell stepped back to give her room, and Webster stepped even further back so he could watch the monitor and the seismograph at the same time. The drill whined with an angry, frustrated note as Marling leant in against the rock. It snarled, twisted in her hands – and then let out a howl as the bit suddenly slid forward, all resistance gone.

“Jesus H!” Marling swore, dropping the drill and backing away. “It went right through!”

“Seals!” Webster snapped, reaching for his helmet with one hand and his commlock with the other. A short shrill from the link was enough to trigger the temporary airlock further down the tunnel. Shewell dragged Marling back from the rock face, both of them ignoring the way the drill shuddered and jumped before it dropped to the ground. They were too busy grabbing their helmets and jamming them on. 

A loud and urgent crack from the half drilled slab added speed to all their efforts, and all three heaved a sigh of relief as the relevant telltales confirmed their isolation from the surrounding atmosphere. If they were lucky, it was just a void – if unlucky, they’d hit a gas pocket, which could be anything from totally inert to highly combustible. Especially if mixed with oxygen …

They braced themselves with haste, primed for either a violent decompression – which would pull the debris away from them, along with the air – or an explosive _compression_ , which could rip right though the tunnel, engulfing them with anything from white hot gas and flame to shattered rock and ice splinters. A crack appeared, running from the last drill hole to the first, then a second, running up to towards the top of the tunnel. Marling’s gloved hand closed convulsively over Shewell’s.

“Love ya, Yui,” she muttered. “Moma loves you …”

The rock shattered – but it didn’t fall in, or out. Rather it fell down – a tumble of weight that shook the surrounding area, knocking over two of the lights and filling the tunnel with a swirl of dust and debris.

After it, silence fell. A muffled silence, the odd tap and crack of still tumbling stone barely audible inside the protective helmets.

“Report,” Webster requested a little dazedly. “Alex? Andi?”

“I’m okay.” Shewell reached to wipe dust off his faceplate. “What the hell was that? Do we have _atmosphere_ on the other side?”

“Oh, my _God …_ ” 

Marling was staring at the opening with wide eyes. The two men turned to follow her gaze – and their mouths slowly dropped open. There was some sort of light, spilling _into_ the tunnel. A slightly green tinged light, oddly warm and gentle, like sunlight seen through a canopy.

Or maybe as seen through the curtain of leaves that hung beyond the shattered opening, a match to those that drifted in to lie, along with several bright scattered petals, across the remnants of the rockfall.

Numbly, still staring, Webster tugged his commlock free from his belt. 

“Command Centre? This is Omicron team leader, Joseph Webster. Get me the Commander. Tell him – tell him we’ve found a garden under the moon …”

* * *

It was more jungle than garden – an alien one, bathed in a pale green phosphorescent light. Koenig frowned as the images played out on the screen in his office, relayed from Webster’s commlock, along with the range of other data the other two miners were busy collecting. Behind the curtain of massive leaves – each of them two to three feet across – lay an arching cavern filled with a riot of vegetation, bushes, trees, twisted vines, angular ferns, humped bushes, and low, lobed leafed plants; an explosion of blues and greens, yellows and browns. _Mostly_ browns in fact – while first glance suggested verdant flourish, a closer look clearly revealed the creep of decay, ambered spots and curled edges peppering the vegetation. The jungle filled the first cave from floor to ceiling, and spilled out into further spaces, arches leading deeper into a richly vegetated complex, the cling of vines and the droop of leaves covering practically every inch of rock surface beneath. Even the roof of the cave was thick with growth, a tangle of vines and branches from which hung more of those huge leaves and hints of flowers and fruits. Webster had volunteered to explore deeper, but Koenig had vetoed the idea – at least until they could confirm the composition of the cavern’s atmosphere, and get some initial data on the plant life it contained.

“It’s looking good, John.” Helena Russell was checking the readouts that Marling was transmitting. “Atmosphere is mostly nitrogen, oxygen, and carbon dioxide – the by-products of vegetative respiration. It’s humid, though – the water content is up on Alpha by several points. And there are these …”

She pointed to the bottom of the atmosphere analysis that computer was displaying. “Traces of some very complex compounds – mostly organic, all of them in very low quantities. It’s possible they’re scents – natural oils produced by the plants – but that doesn’t mean they’ll be harmless. This one – “ she pointed at the bottom most trace, “has echoes of lysergide, and this – “ A second trace, just as low and intermittent as the first. “I think this maybe related to Psilocybin. They’re barely there, but the traces are measurable. Nothing too threatening in small doses - and these are very small doses – but I can’t vouch for long term exposure. I’d recommend no more than an hour, maybe two, at the most. Longer than that … well, the effects might begin with mild euphoria, and some sensory distortion but would probably escalate into hallucinations, mental disconnection, panic attacks …” She shrugged. “This sort of thing – the impact is highly dependant on the individual, their inherent mood, their individual chemistry.”

“Magic mushrooms and acid trips.” Koenig considered, his lips twisting as he weighed the information against the need to explore this discovery further. “From a psychedelic jungle growing under the moon. Very Alice. But we’ve opened up the rabbit hole, and we’re going to have to jump in.” He sighed, and reached for his commlock. “Webster?”

“Sir?”

“Dr Russell’s identified some traces of potentially harmful compounds in the atmosphere. Make sure the airlocks stay sealed – and that they’re set to vent back into the caverns, and not into Alpha. We don’t want to mix our air with this – not until we know a lot more about where these compounds come from and what they might do.”

“Understood, sir. Should we keep our helmets sealed?”

Koenig glanced at Helena, who returned the look with a pensive one. “Short exposures only, John. At least until we can analyse this further.”

“Keep ‘em closed until I get down there, Jo. Then we’ll see. Koenig out.” He closed the link and looked back at the video images, shaking his head at the sheer incredulity of the sight. “Helena,” he said after a moment, “You’d better get your gear together. You, me, and Maya are about to take a walk on the wildside.”


	3. Part Two: Down the Rabbit Hole

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Lunar Expedition Wonderland, Year 6 - 2154 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

“It’s – incredible, isn’t it, Commander?”

Koenig threw his company a wry smile. “That’s – a little of an understatement, Alex. Unbelievable is more like it. Impossible, even.”

Shewell smiled back. “Yes, I suppose so – except that it’s real, so … belief is matter of experience tempered by faith, as the Professor used to say. He’d have loved all this. But that wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking – all this time, looking for a new world, and there was this one, all along. Right under our feet. Kinda hard to get your head round.”

He slewed the buggy to a halt as he spoke, stopping it barely feet away from the makeshift airlock doors that barred further passage along the tunnel. Koenig – who’d been momentarily distracted by the affectionate reminder of a man he still mourned – focused his mind on the task ahead. Adrenaline kicked his heart, and his attentions into high gear. Despite many years of experience, the prospect of facing the unknown still sent a shiver down his spine. “Just a little,” he said, thinking that hard to get your head round was probably just as much an understatement as the first one had been. The existence of a living organism which could thrive in a sealed ecosystem beneath an otherwise hostile environment wasn’t that difficult a concept – but finding one on your own doorstep, and realising that it had to have been there long before mankind had even walked on the surface that it sheltered beneath? That was difficult to grasp. 

The second buggy halted right behind them, driven with casual but impressive skill. Ken Hancock had been a surface man at Breakaway, part of the monitoring team for area two; he’d subsequently transferred into Verdeschi’s security team, and came highly recommended for the task on hand – both for his experience in working in low gee, and for his calm and patient capability. Koenig wasn’t that bothered about guarding the door from those on Alpha who might be curious enough to investigate – but he’d wanted a competent man at his back just in case there were even more surprises lurking ahead. 

“Stay this side of the airlock until, or unless I order otherwise,” he told the man as he unlimbered the pulse rifle from the side of the buggy. “The fewer of us breathing in those compounds the better.” He smiled. “Need a man with a clear head watching our back.”

“No problem, Commander.” The security man’s own smile was warm, a white flash of teeth framed by dark lips. His shaven head – probably a lingering legacy of long days spent in the confines of a space helmet – gleamed under the tunnel lights, adding to the reassuring air of muscular power that he radiated. Hancock was one of those big men who moved with the grace of a dancer while suggesting the intimidating strength of a bear – and knew how to use both. “You still want me to relay messages through to Command Centre?”

“Yes. We’re not sure how well the commlocks will perform down here – there’s a lot of rock to transmit through. But the units on the buggies should be able to keep in touch with both us and Alpha, so just keep an eye on the signal quality, and warn us if we start getting out of range.”

“Will do.” Hancock propped himself next to his helmet on the bumper of the front buggy, carefully resting the rifle across his knee. “Be careful down there, Commander. I’m itching to see it, but – I don’t want to be rushing to the rescue when I do.”

“You’ll get your turn,” Koenig said. “Just stay alert.”

He led the way into the airlock, which was just about big enough for four people in bulky space suits. Helena had advised they enter with helmets on, so that she and Maya could run one final check on the atmosphere before any of them started breathing it. Webster and Marling were waiting on the other side, standing by the rig of temporary lights that they’d been using to illuminate their drilling. “Commander,” the team leader greeted him. 

“Any change?”

“No sir. There’s a little movement from atmospheric currents, but nothing else.” He snorted. “How ‘bout that? The place is big enough to generate a breeze.”

“The place is a fricking jungle,” Marling interjected. “As thick as the Amazon back home. I know we’ve managed miracles in the hydrolabs, but who’d have imagined growing this many plants under the moon?”

“Plant,” Maya corrected abstractedly, her eyes on the monitoring instruments. “Not many, just one.”

“ _One?_ ” Koenig’s questioning eyebrow was probably hard to spot through his helmet, but she interpreted his incredulity with ease.

“Just one, Commander. The biology lab has been examining those specimens Mister Shewell brought back, and – while it is very early days, as yet – the indications are that they have all been taken from the same organism. One with a huge chromosome range - its DNA is extremely convoluted – but still one single plant. Or possibly plant species, as it may propagate asexually. Despite the variety of forms it displays, this ‘jungle’ appears to have been created by a unique organism.”

“One with incredible adaptability – and impressive terraforming capabilities.” Helena looked up from her own instruments to stare at the hanging curtain of leaves. “It’s generated its own atmosphere and its own water supply, and may well have excavated much of the space we’re about to see. We have found some small icepockets, under the lunar surface, and we’ve used them to supplement our water supplies, but this … this must have sought out and utilised some of the larger deposits. Its roots are likely to go deep.”

“We’re half a mile down, already,” Marling muttered. “How deep do they need to go?”

“One plant.” Koenig was still digesting that thought. “Building an entire ecosystem … How does that make sense? And what does that mean to us? Maya?”

The Psychon shrugged. “Unknown, commander. The DNA analysis suggests the potential for a wide variety of forms … There could be blossoms producing much higher concentrations of those organic compounds before they diffuse into the general atmosphere. Poisonous thorns. Even vines or other constructs capable of rapid growth or activity – similar to those we found on Luton. I would be surprised if an organism this complex didn’t have some kind of defence mechanism, but … on the other hand …”

“There’s nothing to threaten it down here.” Koenig frowned, weighing options. “Helena? What do you think?”

“I think that the trace compounds we’ve identified _are_ the defence mechanism, John. From - animal invasion, at least. They are subtle, but probably highly effective in the long term. Suppressing aggression, creating distraction, obfuscation – a little like the Lotus eaters? You’d forget who you were, why you came here. Grow content to sit and slowly waste away.”

“Turning your body into a resource for the plant to exploit,” Maya noted with a nod. “That makes sense, Commander. Perhaps it had more aggressive defences when it was smaller, but – now that has propagated on this scale – it would absorb a great deal of damage before its overall integrity was anywhere being threatened.”

“There are weeds,” Shewell said thoughtfully, “back on Earth? You can rip them up, dig them out – and if you leave just one piece of root in the soil, they come back the next year thicker and more vigorous than before.”

Koenig blinked, having a sudden vision of Alpha festooned with vines – of roots and branches twisting through her corridors while the Alphans sat and did nothing to stem the slow invasion. “Okay,” he decided. “This is all just speculation – but until we have more data, we restrict exposure to its atmosphere, we limit the material we collect for analysis, and we make damn sure that Alpha remains uncontaminated. Everyone got that? Good.” He glanced round his assembled team. “Here’s the plan. We enter the first cavern together. _One_ volunteer gets exposed to the air. If there are no obvious ill effects, we can crack the helmets and reserve the suit packs – but if anyone, and I mean _anyone_ , starts noting any ill effects – headaches, changes in vision - we all reseal and head straight back to the airlocks.”

“And if the air’s okay?” Webster was clearly anxious to be moving. He was a man of action, and Koenig had every sympathy for his obvious impatience.

“Then we split into teams and check out the side tunnels. Regular check ins – with Hancock, and with each other. We explore for – an hour, Helena?”

Dr Russell nodded. “I think that will be safe – but I recommend no more than two hours in total. At least to begin with.”

“Alright. We explore for an hour, and then we turn back. Regroup, compare notes – and then we’ll see.”

He motioned Webster to proceed ahead of him, fighting down the instinct to go first and thereby protect his people from any danger that awaited them. The miners had discovered this place – it was only right that they took the honour of entering it first.

“There’s one more thing, Commander.” Maya moved to join him, her expression slightly troubled behind the safety of her face plate.

“Which is?”

“Well – whatever this plant is, where ever it came from, it _is_ a plant. It must draw all its mineral requirements from the surrounding rocks, just as we do. Water from ice pockets, as Helena said. But plants need energy to metabolise those sorts of resources. Exposure to sunlight. There must be - - collectors of some sort, exposed on the surface or capable of being extended to collect when light is available.”

“So?”

“So,” she breathed slowly, “before the Moon left the orbit of your Earth, sunlight would have been plentiful. But now … it must have been surviving on whatever it could snatch, whenever the moon entered a solar system. Starlight would be not be enough to sustain it. Nor, I suspect has the energies it might have gathered in those intermittent exposures.”

“Meaning?” Koenig was watching Helena as she stepped through the curtain of leaves, noting the subtle change in the colour of her suit as she moved deeper into the soft green light.

“Meaning,” Maya concluded softly, “that it is dying, commander. And even if we decide we want to – there may be no way to save it.”

* * *

The cavern more than fulfilled the promise of the hasty video; despite the obvious signs of growing decay the riot of foliage, flowers and fruit touched something deep inside all of them. This was a place of defiant _life_ , a miracle wrought deep beneath an otherwise dead world – one where pools of water rippled under the soft impact of diamond drops falling in slow cadence from the wide dark leaves that shadowed their surfaces. Rich red petals unfurled around hearts of flaming orange, and drapes of tiny white flowers sparkled like shimmering stars across the canopied ceiling. 

“Wow,” Marling said, climbing onto the curve of a huge arching root and turning slowly to take it all in. “I take it back. This is _better_ than the Amazon. Every season at once, and no creepy crawlies lurking under the leaves to bite or sting. There are no creepy crawlies, right?”

“They might be some ambulatory, or semi-ambulatory, structures,” Maya said, climbing past her to examine the nearest of the wide red blossoms. “But they’re unlikely to be insectile. And even less likely to bite or sting.”

“Testing atmosphere,” Koenig announced, reaching to lift his faceplate. Everyone turned to watch him take his first breath – which was followed by distinct grimace of disgust.

“John?” Dr Russell was immediately concerned, but he waved a reassuring hand in her direction.

“It’s not bad,” he managed after a moment, taking a few more shallow breaths. “Just – _bad._ Smells of … silage. Rotting grass. But there are hints … Rose, I think. Lavender. Violets. Magnolia … In fact,” he concluded, finally taking a deep, if still cautious breath, “once you get past the first impressions it’s – rich. Alive. Andi’s right. It’s tropical. Warm – and pretty humid, too.” He went on breathing, slow and deep, savouring the richer scents that lay behind the taint of decay.

Helena watched for a moment, then reached up and lifted her own faceplate. Her first breath was tentative – a short sniff rather than anything lung filling – and like Koenig before her, she wrinkled her nose and grimaced at the over sweet taint of fermenting greenery. “That’s disgusting,” she said. “If nothing else, we’ve found a source of new fertilisers for the hydrotanks.”

“Real mulch,” Shewell grinned, cracking his own faceplate and taking a cautious breath. “Good for roses. And tomatoes. Hey – “ His face lit up. “Imagine the tomatoes you could grow down here!”

“Size of footballs,” Webster offered, with a grin of his own. “Need sunlight, though. You’d have to rig UV in the ceiling. Wonder how deep the soil layer is …”

“Check it out, Jo,” Koenig suggested, stepping forward and pushing up with one foot so he could join Marling on the lifted root to get a better look around. It wasn’t going to be easy terrain to negotiate, and the humidity suggested that any distance was going to feel like hard work, but the lunar gravity offered some compensation for that. There were at least three substantial archways leading off the main cave; he picked one on the left, pointed Marling towards the one on the right, and waved at Maya to suggest she take the middle route. Both the miner and the Psychon nodded, and he turned to reach down and help Helena up beside him.

“No more than an hour, people,” he reminded them. “Map and record as you go, and make sure you retrace your route coming back. I don’t want anyone lost in this.”

* * *

It turned out to be good advice: without constant checking of their positions and paying close attention to the shift of colour and landscape as they moved through it, it would have been very easy to lose track of where you were and how far you’d travelled. The labyrinth twisted and turned, narrow tunnels opening out into arching space and then back again into cramped and low roofed passages. The floor rose, fell, fell again; it tipped downwards with steep slopes, humped up, then dropped away with deceptive subtleness. Once or twice the ground opened up into deep crevasses, into which leafy vines and slow, arching waterfalls tumbled with equal disregard. Once through the first arch, Koenig had picked a narrow runnel to follow, tracking the flow of water from spreading pool, through trickling brook, and back again. Its lazy but noticeable current suggested that its path might be leading them downwards – hopefully towards some kind of central cavern, and some of the answers they sought.

Helena Russell followed him with care, using the low gee to help her step over obstacles and pick her way through hanging vines or clumps of tangled branches. She paused once or twice to examine the plant more closely – once to confirm that, despite appearances, the flowers lacked any indication that they bloomed for reproductive purposes, and again when they emerged into what looked like a small clearing, carpeted with grass. The tiny, long leafed growth sprung up from a mat of equally tiny roots which wormed their way into the extrusion of rock that lay beneath them. Where the ‘grass’ ended, the jungle began again, springing up from the rootlets, and digging down with determined anchorage; there was rock under the grass, but a far deeper soil beneath the vines and flowers.

“It looks like a mix of excavation and an accretion of organic materials,” she observed thoughtfully. Koenig stepped back to take a look at what she’d found. “The roots dig down – dig _out._ The leaves grow, fall, turn into mulch – and mix with the excavated rock to provide a fertile soil. The internal systems in the vines, along with the waterways, probably transport minerals and other necessary elements right through the complex.” She glanced up, at the pale blue flowers that nodded overhead. “The colours may even be a by-product of the process – triggered by the overabundance of one mineral, or perhaps the lack of another. The plant will be cycling water back to its peripheral caverns, and moving resources at the same time. Too acid, and one you get one colour predominating. Too alkaline …”

“And the colours change.” Koenig nodded, appreciating the elegance of the design. “But why does it need flowers? Or any of this, for that matter? There are no insects to collect pollen, no animals to eat the fruit and transport seeds to new locations – in fact …” He reached up and plucked what looked like a bulbous pear from among the cluster that hung overhead. His gloved thumbs dug deep – and revealed only pulp, its centre devoid of any stone or seeds. A tempting scent, sweet and perfumed, rose from its destruction, making both of their mouths water. Fresh fruit was an extremely rare treat on Alpha, and he hastily tossed the temptation away, scrubbing his glove clean on a nearby leaf.

“I’ll run tests,” Helena promised, understanding his caution only too well. “I suspect the fruits have the compounds too. Perhaps in concentrated quantities. But it may be possible to filter them out …”

They shared a look – one that held a note of hope and promise for the new, young life they had brought into their world. Basic nutrition was all very well, but a child needed opportunities to explore tastes and textures, to experience variety and develop a more discerning palette. The caverns were vast. Even if the plant _were_ dying, there might be time to collect and preserve its bounty for months – even years to come.

“Add it to the list,” Koenig advised with a smile. “And maybe - find someone who knows how to make jelly …”

Helena laughed and climbed back to her feet. It was far too soon for the plants defences to have had any impact on her own – and yet she felt safe here, in a way she could not explain. It was as if they had stumbled into the garden of Eden – a hidden and verdant refuge in an otherwise hostile and dangerous universe. 

That sense of safety increased as they went deeper, and the further they headed into the complex, the less obvious the indications of decay became. The sweet, rotting smell was slowly replaced by richer, headier scents. Flowers and fruit became more prevalent, turning the vine twisting jungle into an exotic garden, or some long abandoned hothouse.

An _alien_ hothouse.

For all the strange familiarity of the place, it was not a garden of earthly delights. They found themselves pushing their way past leaves big enough to use as bedsheets, and were then diverted by stands of pink and purple spears – stalks as thick as old bamboo speared upwards to support candyfloss concoctions made up of myriads of tiny flowers. Huge blossoms hung over the murmuring pools like languid hammocks, striped with red and gold. Fractal ferns arched overhead, or lay in carpets thick enough to walk on, booted feet sinking into soft surfaces only to be pushed upwards again as the curling fronds sought to spring back to their convoluted shapes. The pale light painted everything – including themselves - with a slightly eerie glow, phosphorescence gleaming through and from the vegetation as they passed. Huge, bell like flowers hung in clusters from the higher cavern ceilings, shining like ornate lights twisted into elaborate candelabras.

And everywhere they went, there were the roots – thick, massive structures that weaved their way along the floors, down into the cracks and crevasses, up the walls, and over the ceilings. They were six or seven feet in diameter – much more in some places; they twisted through the verdence like the timbers of some vast and long abandoned shipwreck, their tops crusted with patches of the phosphorescent moss and their bases shaggy with jutting rootlets that speared down and out wherever they intersected with the soil. And they hummed.

It was a soft and barely audible hum that translated into an even softer vibration when Koenig took the risk and placed an ungloved hand against an arching surface. It hadn’t been noticeable back at the entrance cave, but the deeper they went, the louder and sweeter the melody became. Contact with the other members of their team confirmed that the roots were a constant in every cavern, lacing the system with a carefully woven lattice; they locked and held together the edges of the deeper crevasses, they diverted and directed the flow of surface waters, they arched up to reinforce the vaulted ceilings, and they pierced the rock floor, either to anchor the structure or perhaps to seek out the deeper ice pockets and the rarer mineral veins.

Maya speculated that their presence helped stabilise the excavations, shoring up the cavern roofs and providing the same kind of support that I-beams and girders did in earthly construction projects. She also suggested that they acted as the main arteries for the complex, internally transporting water and other resources far faster than the slow trickling flow that simple Luna gravity provided. Their interweavings across the cavern roofs might have other purposes too – such as supporting mechanisms to act against unwanted atmospheric breaches. Tidal forces sometimes created Lunar quakes, and the roots would be able to hold the rock and absorb the vibrations that a quake might bring. If there were to be a breach, then the plant might respond with rapid leaf growth, or the extrusion of sap that hardened rapidly – in which case the lattice of roots could provide the anchoring framework that would gather an accumulation of debris as the pressure fell, ensuring that loss of air and water would be minimised. 

“Self sealing,” Koenig noted, staring up at the roof overhead. “Clever – and impressive.” Helena nodded, reassured by the thought, and puzzled by its implications. How could an organism like this develop such sophisticated and specific responses to its environment? Was that the reason for its complex and convoluted DNA? Were different structures trigged by different environmental conditions? Or were airless and buried worlds its place of mastery, the niche into which its ancestors had evolved to fit?

She filed the thought away for further consideration and focused on listening to Webster and Marling’s report. The two miners had been circling what they thought was the periphery of the system, moving through a number of smaller caverns that held less vegetation, contained larger pools of water – and concealed heaps of semi-refined minerals, apparently dumped there as refuse or possibly reserves. The crystal sands that they were describing were going to be every bit as valuable a resource for Alpha as the fruits that she and Koenig had been discussing. Maybe even more so. Their semi-refined state was going to save time and energy- and the sheer quantities involved might mean that the miners were going to have to change their primary profession. There’d be no point in sending out mining parties if you could simply step into these caverns and pick even the rarest of minerals up by the bucketful.

_Is this too good to be true?_ she wondered, leaving Koenig to listen to the rest of the report while she bent to take further samples of the clear, if slightly shimmering water from a nearby pool. Her tests indicated that the worrying organic compounds were slowly increasing in concentration as they moved deeper into the caverns, and they seemed to contaminate everything – the atmosphere, the streams, the pools, the fruit, the leaves, even the soil. If they could only solve that problem - find ways to eliminate them or to counteract their effects - then this vast complex, with its reserve of air and water, its protective structure, its rich soil and mineral reserves, would be far more than Alpha would ever need to support its slowly expanding population – at least until they found a world they could claim as their own. It wouldn’t be easy though – while the low gravity in the caves turned what could have been an exhausting walk into a fairly pleasant stroll, it would inhibit attempts to live in the complex. Human muscle and bone had been designed to flourish in the resistances of Earth’s gravity, and without it, they would slowly waste and atrophy.

She looked up from the analyser to find Koenig striding across the cavern, his eye caught by something he’d glimpsed in the undergrowth. She spotted it a moment later - a flash of yellow lurking by one of the huge roots, half buried in the ferny turf, a jarring note in a cavern otherwise filled with deep purples and rich blues. Whatever it was, it spurred Koenig into frantic action, dropping him to his knees so he could scrabble and dig and then _tug,_ fighting the twist of vine and rootlets that held the object in place.

“John?” she queried, rising to her feet and moving to join him. He’d finally managed to tug whatever it was free and had sat back, staring at it. Helena stepped round to get a better look – and froze in place, a cold shiver running down her spine. “Is that …?”

His hands were trembling as he turned the object over, his fingers tracing the curved lines, exploring the scratched and dented surface. Part of it was missing and the internal padding was torn, but the shape was familiar and unmistakable.

As were the faded letters written just above where the faceplate should have been.

“It’s – Victor’s,” Koenig murmured in disbelief. 

“What?” The shiver became something greater, a grasping knot in her stomach, a tremble of shock. He lifted the helmet, holding it out to her as if it were the holy grail. 

“Victor’s helmet,” he said, with growing conviction. “The one he was wearing that day …”

“No,” she denied, taking a half step back, wanting this and _not_ wanting it. It was impossible. _Unthinkable._ “It can’t be. John – the accident wasn’t here, it was – “

“- some three or four miles west of where we entered,” he completed, a disconcerted realisation. He glanced up at the cavern roof, and jabbed a finger in the relevant direction. “That way. I know we’re over half a mile down here, but – we never measured the depth of that crevasse and … this complex could certainly extend that far. Maybe further.”

She shook her head, pushing a vague moment of hope away with determined practice. “No,” she said. “ _No._ Even if that is the case – what’s it doing here? It’s too heavy for the water to have moved it, even in lunar gee. Especially over that sort of distance. There’s no way it could have got from there to here.”

“No,” he agreed slowly, turning and re-turning the impossible object in his hands. “Unless …”

“Unless?” That vague moment was back, clawing at her, tightening the knot in her stomach.

“Unless … unless it was brought here. Worn … or carried. Only one of these seals is broken. The rest of them have been _unlocked._ ” He considered the implications of that for a second or two, then fumbled for his commlock, practically barking his request into the tiny screen.

“Has anyone seen any indications of life down here, other than the plant?” He handed the helmet to Helena while he waited for the answers, and she took it gingerly, oddly disconcerted by its solid reality. She’d half expected it to vanish as it left Koenig’s hands.

“Negative, Commander.” Webster’s answer was a certain one. His voice was also slightly distorted by the way their signals were bouncing around the caverns. 

“Nothing so far,” Maya reported a moment later. “Have you found something, Commander?”

Koenig looked at Helena, who looked back, a little helplessly. The helmet in her hands was real enough, its surface battered and paint scraped and its lining aged by damp. But its presence was an impossibility. A mystery she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve.

Not if this verdant garden, this hidden paradise, turned out to be an old friend’s grave…

“We’re not sure,” Koenig responded after a moment or two. “Just – stay alert and watch yourselves. I think there’s more to this place than meets the eye.”

“Much more,” Helena murmured as both teams smartly acknowledged the request. “John …”

“Helena?” His question was patient, but his eyes weren’t. They burned with anxious fire, wrestling with both doubt – and hope.

“Well,” she assessed, turning the helmet over in her hands so that she could confirm his earlier assertion. The seals had been unlocked. Someone – or something – had opened them, allowing the helmet to part company with the suit … “Given that the crevasse _might_ link to this complex in some way, and postulating a minimal period of decompression, following the initial incident …” Emotion tore through her attempt at professional analysis. She didn’t want that hope. Couldn’t afford it. Because she knew it would break her, should it – inevitably – prove false. It had hurt so much to lose him. She couldn’t do it all over again. “No, John. No. It can’t be. It was five years ago. Even if he lived through the initial fall ... he wasn’t a young man anymore. How would he – how _could_ he …” It was hard to think, let alone say. “ …possibly survive?”

Koenig frowned, a thoughtful, pensive look. He wasn’t about to give up. He never gave up on hope, and she loved him and feared for him because of it. “There’s air, and water, here … “ He glanced over at the nearest vine. “Plenty of fruit to eat. Maybe other things as well. Victor was – is – the wisest man I’ve ever known. If it is possible to survive down here – then he’ll have found a way.”


	4. Part Three: Who in the world am I?  Ah, that's the great puzzle.

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Lunar Expedition Wonderland, Year 6 - 2154 days Post Breakaway.  
Report of Scientific Officer: Maya

* * *

Some considerable distance away, in very different part of the complex, Maya and her companion were finding it increasingly difficult to move onward. They too, had picked a stream to follow, and Shewell had willing trudged along it, carrying most of their equipment while Maya took samples and collected specimens from practically everything. It had been easy at first, the caves following a similar pattern to the one that Koenig and Dr Russell had found – but then the tunnels had begun to narrow and twist around, branching and knotting, until they were climbing down an intricate and inverse set of loops and knots, an intricate lattice from which side caverns bloomed like half blown bubbles, while the main passage twisted over and under and through itself like some ancient Gordian knot. They’d had to backtrack out of several dead ends, and began to find themselves carefully inching across extended roots to reach the next twist or turn, while the water they were following slowly cascaded down from one level to the next. After one particular labyrinthine passage, they came to a frustrated halt, staring down at yet another slow and elegant waterfall as it took the quickest route to the unseen floor, far below.

“Never thought I’d take up potholing on the Moon,” Shewell sighed, finding himself a perch on the nearest root. The soft hum it was emitting deepened into a similar sigh before returning to its previous pitch. “Or have we somehow stumbled into a remake of ‘Journey to the Centre of the Earth?”

“We are not on Earth,” Maya noted in puzzlement. “Nor are we heading for the Moon’s centre. Just the centre of the complex, I think … does that look as if it opens out, lower down?”

The miner leant out over the drop, fingers anchored in a handful of vines so that he didn’t overbalance or fall. “Yeah,” he said. “Think so. Hard to reach without rope or a rappelling harness, though. And even harder to get back up again.”

“For you,” the Psychon smiled. “Not for me. Start making your way back up. We are nearly at the end of our hour and it will take a while to retrace our steps. I will just take a quick look at the lower level, and then catch up with you. I won’t be long.” She paused, her face creasing in concentration – and then she _shifted,_ her form shimmering a little as it underwent its change. A moment later, a small but elegant bird launched itself from the edge of the drop and spiralled down past the slow descent of water until it was swallowed up in the depths. Shewell watched it go with fascinated eyes.

“Be careful down there,” he called. The only acknowledgement he received was the haunting cry of a hawk.

* * *

Flying in low gravity was an art – not one that Maya had ever taken time to master, despite the many shapes she’d practiced and perfected under her father’s tutelage. It was more of a challenge than she’d expected, but she allowed the physics of it to do most of the work, using her wings to steady and direct a slow but certain fall. She might, she decided, choose a climbing animal for the return journey rather than a winged one – navigating back up the twist of roots and vines while avoiding the slow balletic tumble of the waterfall was going to be easier if she had hands to grip and guide her way.

Maybe something with a prehensile tail …

She twisted and she tumbled through a tangle of roots, spinning round the cascade – and then, suddenly, she was spreading her wings to halt her descent. The cavern opened out, just as she’d suspected, the water spilling through an almost vertical shaft to fall, fifty, sixty feet into a deep pool below. The lower cave was a vaulted cathedral compared to the narrow tunnels she’d been traversing earlier – but it was nothing compared to the space that lay beyond it, a vast, forest filled cavern that stretched almost as far as she could see.

Her wings caught an updraft as she glided from the smaller cave into the larger one, and it lifted her up to bear witness to the heart of the plant’s domain. The space was high enough to generate humid precipitation – she found herself sliding through wisps of cloud as they gathered in the upper vaults – and wide enough to offer an illusion of openness, despite the intricate lacing of roots and leaf that covered the arching ceiling. The whole of Alpha would have fitted into it with ease – although the base’s upper sprawl would balance precariously on the stepped descent of the lower floor, and Command Centre would almost certainly vanish beneath the waters of the central lake, which dominated the lowest curves.

Maya winged back and found a looping vine to use as a temporary perch. Here, as everywhere else, the thick, sinuous roots created an elegant and intricate architecture, twisting up the walls, lacing across the ceiling, and criss-crossing the floor. Unlike the earlier caves, however, their growth had a clear and identifiable pattern; they radiated out from the lake like some vast spider’s web, huge long ribs curving up to reinforce the walls before arching back across the roof to reconverge at the centre. Smaller structures lay below her, their detail lost in the verdant undergrowth – but she didn’t bother trying to search them out. Her eyes were drawn, not down to the patterns that delineated the terraces or directed the streams into the edges of the lake, but inwards and up - to the very centre of the whole design.

There was an island in the middle of the lake – one constructed from a lattice of roots, weaving and interweaving in an intricate spiral pattern – and from the centre of that, there rose a spectacular column, a thickly interwoven one, which reached from the lowest point of the cave to the highest, some fifteen hundred feet or more.

On Earth, it would have been an impossible structure, dwarfing even the tallest of Redwoods and collapsing, inevitably, under its own weight. But on the Moon, it was merely nature expressed in grand strokes, the growth of millennia constructing an epic architecture that defied the limitations of gravity and turned them into co-designers of a masterpiece.

It had been built up and down; many of the roots that contributed to the layers of the column were those descending from the roof, the upward and the downward growth strengthening and reinforcing the design. Close to its apex the column arched out, completing the curved vaulting that turned the ceiling into gothic complexity. A few, pendulous blossoms – vast enough for each petal to wrap an Eagle and still have length to spare – hung from the junction between the column and the roof. At one time, she suspected, they would have surrounded and concealed the secret at its centre – but most of them seemed to have dropped away, giving her a tantalising glimpse of what lay within. There was an opening, right above the heart of the column, and beneath it lay some kind of faceted, crystalline structure that folded in and over, almost like a flower bud …

Maya blinked raptor eyes and tilted her head sideways to get a better look. It wasn’t like a flower, it _was_ a flower, a crystal one with its petals drawn down and tightly packed over what seemed to be a central mass. The crystal was glowing softly, creating additional light that scattered across the cavern in streams of gold and white – a light that shivered and pulsed in slow synchronicity with that soft and persistent melody, the thrumming vibrations that had echoed though every cave. 

It filled this entire cavern - conjuring an endless, shifting music, a harmony of alien voices that caught at the heart and commanded the mind – wrapping them both in a long lament of slow and weary sorrow.

For Maya – who was the last of her race, and living in exile on a wandering, lonely moon – the sound of it was almost too much to bear.

She turned and fell away, spreading her wings so that she could glide swiftly to the ground. The terraces were thick with leaves and blossoms, but there were some areas of open space at the edges of the lake, so she picked the nearest and landed there, unfolding into her natural form as soon as it was safe to do so. On one side of her lay the water surface, ruffled and rippling from the impact of the descending waterfalls. On the other, clusters of flowers, blood red at their hearts and iridescent pink along their edges, draped like half drawn curtains over the edge of a low terrace. Each flower was eight to nine feet across, with several layers of curving petals defining their shape; in contrast, the blossoms that decorated the ‘turf’ beneath her feet were both delicate and tiny – a dance of red and orange splashes in among a carpet of green and gold.

“Commander,” she reported as soon as she could access her commlock, “I’ve reached the central cavern. It’s … quite breathtaking. There’s a lake, and terraces, and a riot of leaves and flowers in a huge range of scale. And there’s a significant structure here that might serve to collect or redirect sunlight – I’d need a closer look to be sure, but …”

“Just be careful.” Koenig’s voice was muted by the song that filled the air around her. “Helena and I are turning back. We can’t risk too long an exposure to this atmosphere – not until we know a little more about it. Record your initial impressions, and then return. We’ll see if we can arrange a longer visit next time.”

“Acknowledged, Commander. I’ll meet you back at the airlocks shortly.” 

She clicked the commlock over to its recording mode and turned slowly on the spot, capturing a sweeping panorama that included the pink and red blossoms, the view across the lake, the upwards spiral of the central column and the distant crystal flower at its apex. Then she hooked the device back to her belt and walked down to the edge of the lake, intending to use the few minutes she had left to take some readings and collect some samples. 

She’d reached the edge of the water and had just started to crouch down, when something started singing.

_“Picture yourself on a boat by a river …”_

Some _one_ , not some thing. 

_“… where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies …”_

It was clearly a human voice – one that was using the variant melody of the plant to counterpoint its own, not entirely tuneful rendition of what sounded like a nonsense song.

_“Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly …”_

She turned her head, looking along the edge of the lake and – for a moment – seeing nothing but another cluster of those same pink and red flowers, cascading over the rising line of a root as it emerged from the water.

_“ A girl … with kaleidoscope eyes …”_

She blinked, bringing everything into scale and focus. Sitting in the lowest petals of the lowest flower, one bare foot dangling in the water, and the other drawn up beneath him, was a gaunt and impossible figure. An old man, balding and hollow cheeked above a wild tangle of beard.

“Well now,” he said slowly, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at her. “Where did _you_ come from? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before …”

His eyes narrowed for a moment; they appeared to be steel grey, startlingly intense within the frame of his emaciated and aquiline features. “No,” he decided, with a slow shake of his head. “No, you’re new. Or else …” A look of wary horror crossed his face. “Am I forgetting things again?” The horror slowly faded into doubt. “I don’t remember …”

His voice – offered in soft, velvet tones backed with hints of world weariness – somehow echoed the plant’s sorrowed song, enhancing it, harmonising with it rather than disturbing it. Maya stood up as slowly as she could, wary of startling him. He looked as if he would startle easily, a fragile and pale haunt against the rich colours that surrounded him. “What – who are you?” she asked guardedly. The plant’s capability for variation and adaptation was impressive, but the generation of a _human_ aspect was both unexpected and extremely unlikely. Especially this aspect – which was bizarre, to say the least. 

“Ooh,” he reacted, straightening up and giving her a delighted look. The sudden smile lit his face with genial and surprisingly boyish charm. “Good question. Very good question. Have to think about that one.” 

He put up his hand and grasped a nearby branch, using it to lift himself up and out of the flower with what looked like the ease of long practice and the forgiving gentleness of lunar gravity. Her first impression – that he was completely naked behind his beard – was quickly countered by the ragged orange fabric that hugged his hips and legs, and the black strips of webbing that held it in place. Neither concealed the awkward twist in his left leg, which he favoured as he paced towards her, his expression reverting to that narrow eyed, pensive consideration.

Maya’s own eyes narrowed, recognising – in the fabric’s distinctive colour – a possible attempt to echo the appearance of human beings as the plant had encountered them. Was this creature animal – or vegetable? If he was an artefact, then he wasn’t a very good one: he was more of a sketch than a finished design, all knots and angles and a hasty misshape there might not have been time to correct.

The voice though – the _voice_ was good, despite its obvious harmonics with the plants own song. 

“We’ll have met somewhere,” he was saying, clearly puzzling over when and where. “You were a student, perhaps … or someone’s wife …” Neither of them seemed to be the answer he was looking for.

Maya took a step back to counter his approach, struggling to assess what she was seeing. He was impossibly thin, a creature seemingly built of bone and skin, yet perfectly at home in the low gravity which did not threaten his frailty; the eyes that studied her were bright and disconcertingly intense in their gaunt frame. “Piri,” he announced suddenly – a moment’s relief that collapsed into puzzlement. “No – no, that can’t be right … Strange …”

“Strange?” Maya echoed, thinking that the word summed up the situation perfectly. 

“Yes,” he breathed, breaking into another of those warm smiles. “A beautiful woman like you, visiting an old man like me …” His eyes darted up towards the rising column, and the smile grew into an amused grin. “Maybe you’re _her_ …” He shook his head, laughing softly at the thought. The laugh had a brittle edge to it, and Maya took another wary step backwards. He didn’t look as if he could hurt her, but looks could be deceptive. He _looked_ human – but there was no way he could be. “Not that it matters. You’re not real – but she is. The only thing that is …”

“I’m hallucinating,” Maya realised, remembering Helena’s warnings about the trace compounds and their possible effects. The old man, who’d been casting around for somewhere to sit down, looked up at her with surprise.

“No, no,” he countered, “ _I’m_ the one hallucinating. Echoes of memory. Things that used to be.” He found a suitable perch on an arching root and looked at her with suddenly sad eyes. “Old voices. There’s no-one coming. Not now. It’s been too long.” His sigh was soft, conveying a weary sorrow. “Too many days without the sun, and she’s going to seed.” His second upward glance was wistful. “Nothing but memories now. She used to talk to me, but … I don’t think I’m important anymore. Are you important?” he asked, refocusing his attention on Maya, who took yet another step back, disconcerted by the desperation in the question. “You must be. I wouldn’t have … would I?” He stared at her, his expression creased in anxious doubt. “I don’t know you,” he complained. “I don’t … _remember_ …”

The last was a cry from the heart, a plea for something that Maya could not provide. If he was a hallucination, he was one that was confronting her with nothing but riddles. And if he wasn’t … Was the plant attempting to communicate? What sort of adaptability did it have, if it could conjure up something like this in so short a time? Her commlock bleeped – a sharp and certain reminder. She was out of time. She had to go. 

She shifted with ease, reassuming the form she’d worn earlier, and shot straight up, into the perfumed air. A glance behind gave her a haunting image; the old man staring after her, his mouth open and his eyes wide. 

“No - wait,” she heard him call, the sound of his voice fading as she flew away, swallowed up in the symphony of the plant. “Don’t go. I need to know who you _are_ …”

* * *

Koenig was growing impatient by the time Maya and Shewell emerged from the airlock, only too conscious of the time it took to purge – first from their suits and then from the airlock itself – all traces of the atmosphere they’d all been breathing for the past couple of hours. The air in the tunnels smelled stale and flat after the richness of the plant’s perfumes, and he’d found himself wondering if the elements they contained could be addictive, even after such a short exposure. His anxiety – along with the shock of his own discovery, had made him react with unnecessary sharpness at Webster and Marling’s giddiness over their mineral finds. He’d apologised immediately, of course, and not just because of Helena’s reproving look. It was entirely possible that some of their excited behaviour was an early reaction to the plant’s chemical defences – which might also explain his own jitteriness, although Helena seemed relatively unaffected, her wary frown and her pensive concerns being exactly what he would have expected from her in any other circumstances.

Shewell appeared to be neither jittery nor giddy, just his usual, nonchalant self. He did reach over to briefly catch at Jo Webster’s hand, and share a grin that had hints of both warmth and relief – but then the two men had long since disclosed their personal partnership, a comfortable arrangement that enhanced rather than threatened their professional one. Koenig had even officiated at their commitment ceremony, some three years back. Alphans were wary of such steps as a rule – the on-going dangers they all faced made the promise of life long partnerships an uneasy consideration and the old concepts of marriage and fidelity were being questioned on a constant basis – but commitment, and promises of commitment were still important, and still significant considerations in among the complex relationships that had begun to emerge on Alpha over the years. 

His own, for instance … Koenig paused to share a slightly relieved smile with Helena, pleased that all the members of the exploration party had returned safe, and apparently sound. She acknowledged the smile with a brief one of her own before turning back to Maya with a look of cautious concern. Koenig stepped past them both, intending to check with Shewell and Webster as they completed the final check on the airlock seals. Marling was busy loading specimen boxes and bottles into the racks on the buggy, and teasing Hancock with tales of what they’d seen. The Psychon was still clutching her collection, frowning down at the readings on the equipment with clear signs of puzzlement.

“Maya? Is there something wrong?” Koenig heard Helena ask. “Something we’ve missed?”

“No,” Maya was quick to deny, then shook her head, “no – I don’t think …” She paused, and then sighed softly. “I’m not sure. Did you … did anyone see anything down there? Something – actively mobile? ”

_Mobile?_ Koenig swivelled immediately, his hand clenching convulsively on the rim of the helmet that still dangled from his hand. It was probably nothing, but still …

Helena had pulled in a startled gasp, and Maya was staring at her, equally startled by her reaction.

“Did you – see something?” Helena’s question was quiet, but intense. Maya half shrugged, her expression conflicted. Uncertain.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I _thought_ I saw … but I can’t be certain I did. There was something … I thought, perhaps I was hallucinating. That my Psychon physiology had reacted more rapidly than a human one, but – if so, the vision didn’t make any kind of sense. And I saw nothing else, nothing … only there, in the central cavern. This one thing … I wondered … some construction of the plant, perhaps? An attempt to communicate?”

Koenig had begun to relax, letting that brief surge of hope and anticipation go with reluctant disappointment. It had been mere chance that he’d spotted the abandoned helmet, lying half buried in among the greenery, and even if there were a possibility that its owner had survived, it might take them days to find any further sign …

“Communicate?” Helena was frowning over the idea. “But why? And how?”

“I don’t know.” Maya sat back on the edge of the buggy, wrestling with her memories of the event she was trying to describe. “All I know is – I heard a voice, I looked up – and there was this old man …”

Helena gasped a second time, her hand lifting to cover it, her head shaking in wary denial. “ _No,_ ” she murmured, wide eyes turning towards him in appeal. “John …”

He was already taking a firm step forward, his hand curling around Maya’s shoulder before she could react, his own eyes intense as he stared into hers, looking for the lie. “Old man?” he demanded, a resurgence of hope warring with angry denial, with the need for her confirmation and the fear – the _desperate_ fear – that it was all too good to be true.

“Yes,” she said, clearly as confused by their reactions as she was by the event she was trying to describe. She glanced down at his hand and he relaxed his grip a little, realising he’d grabbed hard enough to bruise. “And - no. I don’t know what it was, Commander. I saw … it was like a puppet – all skin and bones and no substance, I … his voice sang, like the plant, soft harmonics – as if it spoke through him. But the words made no sense. Just disjointed phrases and questions …” She shook her head, struggling to explain an encounter she clearly had no frame of reference for. “It doesn’t make sense, Commander. Why would the plant try to imitate the human form – and why that form? Why not one of us? An echo of us, at least – that would make sense.”

“It wasn’t the plant.” Koenig let her go, stepping back and taking a deep breath to settle some of the pounding in his chest. It was true. It had to be. After all these years …

“John,” Helena offered warningly, and he threw her a stubborn look – one that turned her anxious consideration into an equally stubborn frown. He didn’t need the arguments, although he knew he was going to get them all the same. Somehow, he knew – perhaps had known the moment the helmet had sat there, firm and real and solid in his hands – and he knew all the reasons he should question it, understood all the counterpoints and the doubts, and the things Helena would need proved before she would – before she even _could_ believe. Hope was too fragile a thing for Helena Russell to nurture on mere chance, on alien environments and unknown possibilities. She’d been bitterly discouraged in the early days of their journeying, thinking that fate had returned her lost husband to her - only for her to lose him again, raising the doubt that he’d ever been there. For this miracle, she’d need much more than a battered remnant and a fleeting vision – but despite, or perhaps because of, Maya’s disjointed and confused description, Koenig’s fragile hope had turned into confident certainty. The kind of certainty that Victor had always encouraged in him – a conviction supported by the realities of evidence, the impossibilities of co-incidence, and the sheer stubbornness of faith. Not in some higher power, or the mysteries of some unstated destiny, but faith in the _man_ – the man who, so often, had been able to find the answer they’d needed, the means by which they could survive.

_If anyone could survive down there, it would be Victor. And knowing Victor …_

“Not the plant, Commander?” Maya was frowning at his statement, worrying at it, as if it were an equation that she lacked the information to solve. “Then what did I see?”

“An echo,” Helena interjected firmly. “A vision – at best a ghost. Nothing more.”

“An old ghost,” Koenig said, equally firmly, lifting the helmet to thrust it into Maya’s hands. “One of Alpha’s long lost sheep. Much loved, much missed – and hopefully, one we can bring home.”

“ _John._ ” This time Helena’s warning was clear – and she was right. There was no point in raising hope, only to have it dashed away. He might be wrong – and while he knew that he wasn’t, he knew better than to set bells ringing and hares running before he had proof that others would believe. 

“Alright,” he said, glancing round the assembled team, making assessments and decisions and plans all in one careful breath. He could trust these people – trust some to follow his orders, others to understand his cautions, and all of them to want to be sure and certain before sharing any of what they might find with the rest of Alpha. There had been so many days of hope dashed aside by cold realities in the course of their long journey that hope had become something very few of the crew allowed themselves to express until – or unless - they were sure of it … and while this, perhaps, was a hope that could become reality, there were few who would accept it until it did.

Like Helena, who was watching him with anxious eyes – an anxiety for him, not the man he was about to discuss. She would spare herself that jeopardy until she had the proof she needed – until hope denied became truth undeniable - and he would let her sustain her healthy scepticism, because if he were _wrong …_

Maya was turning the helmet over in her hands, almost exactly the way he had done when they’d found it. The faded letters spoke a truth he could neither deny or ignore. He wasn’t wrong – and it would be a sweet moment when he was able to prove it to the sceptical Dr Russell, for all sort of reasons. 

“The existence of these caves cannot be kept secret,” he began. “Too many people have seen the initial reports, and too many others will need to be involved in the study of the specimens, the geological surveys, and so on. But until we know more about what’s in them, I don’t want anyone and everyone poking about down here. From now, until I – or Dr Russell – say otherwise,” She acknowledged his inclusion of her say so with an approving nod, “we six will be the only ones allowed to enter and explore the system. We will do so in closely monitored, time limited sessions, and we will undertake regular medical and mental testing both before and after each session, to ensure that there are no serious – or lasting – effects from exposure to the plant and its environs.”

He precipitated a round of nods for that idea; monitoring the potential hazards of their environment was second nature to the mining team and Maya certainly understood the need for caution. Hancock was looking a little disappointed at being excluded from the expeditions, but Koenig couldn’t help that. If everything went the way Koenig was planning, then the man would get his chance soon enough.

“That restriction includes the release of any information about what we find – or might find – over the next few days. Official statements only, people – strictly those approved by me – and nothing else, understand?”

The nods were less certain this time. Shewell and Webster shared a look – and Marling frowned, a little anxiously.

“I know Hichero will ask,” Koenig acknowledged, not without sympathy, “and others too – but this is important. Keep it general, link it to what we’ve released, and try not to raise expectations precipitously. I’ve had too many people clamouring for Operation Exodus when all we’ve known about a world has been the nature of its atmosphere – and while this world may turn out to be everything it seems, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Not yet.”

Anxious looks turned into understanding ones; Marling held her frown a little longer than the rest. “Can I tell Yui, Commander? That place – I gotta tell _someone._ ”

The glance Helena threw at him was both amused and filled with advice. Koenig was ahead of her on the first one, and probably didn’t need the rest – but appreciated it all the same. “Just make it’s only Yui,” he smiled. “For the time being at least. And just about the plant. Not about this.” He reached to tap at the discovered helmet, which Maya was still cradling in her hands. “No-one but us knows about _this._ Not until we’re sure it’s real, that what it implies is _also_ real – and that we’re certain. Absolutely certain.”

It was Shewell’s turn to frown. “Certain of what, Commander?”

Koenig tugged the helmet from Maya’s grip and threw it towards him, a slow, tumbled exchange in the low gravity. He reached out to catch it, then nearly dropped it again as he registered the faded letters and what they might imply. “That we’ve found Victor,” Koenig said. “That we’ve found him alive – and that we can bring him back, safe and sound.”

* * *

“Weight five twenty-six; diameter point seven three of a metre; temperature reads as ambient; radiation zero.” The voice on the recording was calm and composed: a soft, measured voice, confidently assessing the object its owner was busy examining. “Composition ... still unknown." The man smiled at that, a quiet note of humour acknowledging the admission of ignorance. Maya watched as the figure on the monitor stepped back to trigger equipment and initiate a test sequence designed to measure surface reflectivity and energy absorption. It was a test she used herself many times since coming to Alpha – had used, in fact, less than an hour ago, on a battered yellow helmet that carried this man’s name.

“Reflection coefficient is less than 5%, surface is matt and – “ Professor Bergman reached to warily hover his hand over the spot the laser had struck, “energy absorption appear to be high …” His fingers dipped to brush the darkened surface and then were hastily snatched back; he breathed on his fingers tips for a moment, then shared a chagrined glance with the camera. “Surface,” he noted with a hint of self irony, “is ice cold.” The slightly amused look dropped into a wary frown and he turned to look at the device again. “Cold?” he repeated puzzledly, then stepped over to check a completely different monitor. “ Hello - room temperature has dropped four degrees …”

Maya reached out and paused the recording. She wasn’t watching to review the history of the object involved – which, like many of the alien space probes that the Alphans had intercepted over the years, had brought danger and discovery in equal measure – but to gain the measure of the man who’d examined it. This quietly focused, scholarly figure seemed, on first examination, far removed from the apparition that she’d seem in the caverns, and yet … the voice was familiar. True, it lacked some of those harmonic overtones that had made such an impression on her, but the accent, and the soft, measured intonation underpinning the words were a warm echo of the strange, one sided conversation she’d shared not so long ago. 

Several years of a close to starvation diet spent in lunar gravity might explain a transformation from this studious patrician into the gaunt and angled creature she’d met – and looking more closely she could see a prospective match between some of those sharp bony features and the ones she could observe here. The jut of his chin had been concealed by the tangled beard, but the line of the high forehead, the distinctive shape of his nose, and the depth of his eyes … yes. This _could_ be the man, some five years adrift and subject to extreme deprivations …

She sighed and sat back, staring at the frozen image with a sense of disquiet. Helena Russell had tried to convince her that her encounter was merely the result of the suspect chemicals that permeated the plant and the caverns that contained it. Koenig had been equally convinced that she had met a living man, his oldest and dearest friend, miraculously preserved following an unfortunate accident on the Lunar surface. Along with those two options, Maya continued to consider her own – that the plant, by some means, had created a construct that aped its human invaders, perhaps to distract, perhaps in an attempt to communicate.

None of them felt right, and yet … She sighed again, reaching to switch off the recording. She needed to weigh the options objectively – weigh up the evidence and assess the possibilities they offered. 

The chemical option was looking less and less likely. No-one else had reported any hallucinatory effects, and – had she been asked beforehand – she might have argued that her Psychon physiology was less likely to be affected than that of her human companions. Her training in the art of molecular transformation gave her a level of control over her body’s chemistry, and had there been any serious effects arising from the plant’s perfumes, she should have noticed them when she had chosen to transform. Since she had not noticed anything untoward, and the transformation had been both seamless and successful, she reasoned that she had been relatively unaffected during her encounter – even if she had assumed otherwise at the time.

The other two were harder to separate and even harder to assess, given the limited evidence she had. The tests identified that the helmet was real enough – which provided a testimony of possible survival following the original accident – but that didn’t mean that its owner had _continued_ to survive. Or did it? Koenig had sent her the reports made at the time, and she had carefully matched the surface maps to both the well defined labyrinth of extended tunnels beneath the base, and the less well defined extents of the plants domain. Much of that side of Alpha was still unknown territory – the original site survey had dismissed the rocky territory beyond the crater wall as ‘unsuitable for surface development’ and had not bothered to explore it further. Arial photographs taken just after Breakway – courtesy of an automated camera and what had probably been an extremely bored Eagle pilot – had failed to show any major shift of geology, so had been filed away for later study. The one notation they bore – a jotted, hand written note initialled ‘VB’ – circled a vaguely anomalous spot and simply read ‘higher than background thermic radiation. Check distribution of scattered waste.’ Subsequent events had clearly driven the puzzle from the Professor’s mind and there were no further notes or subsequent cross referencing. 

One lost canister of nuclear waste would not have been anything to worry about – but Maya suspected that the thermic anomaly was a lot more than that. The spot that the curious Professor had ringed lay almost directly over her estimate of where the plant’s central cavern lay – which meant that a closer look while they still had sunlight to illuminate a visual scan might have warranted a lot more than a scribbled note in a forgotten file. 

“If the flower opens here,” she murmured, measuring the distances and re-examining her maps, “and the accident was _here …_ ”

Initial survival was not only possible, but highly probable – if the crevasse were deep enough. The fault on the helmet had blown a seal, but the break had been in the neck connections, not around the more vulnerable faceplate and they’d been designed for positive, rather than negative failure. There would have been subsequent seepage, but internal pressures would have prevented explosive decompression – and if the fall had not just been down, but down and _through_ … then the plant would have automatically sealed the breach behind the intruder, and after that, he’d have been breathing fresh and perfumed air.

Contaminated air. Air which was perfumed and poisoned, and mentally disorientating … How long could a man survive, broken and battered and befuddled in his senses? Maya remembered the unnatural twist in the apparition’s leg and shivered, thinking about how debilitating and disabling such an injury might be. The negatives mounted up once you’d allowed for an initial miracle – an injured man, hurt and alone, trying to survive in an alien environment, with no expectation of rescue? On the other hand, there was the low gravity environment, the presence of the plants resources, and the possibility that the chemical contaminants might dull pain along with their other effects … 

She sighed, realising that she simply lacked the data to assess the odds, one way or the other. While there might be a living man down there, there was also a possibility that the plant had made use of the remains of a dead one – constructing a grisly automaton from old bones or simply creating an echo of a half remembered visitor.

And if she believed in metaphysical superstitions, then the apparition might well have been just that – a genuine haunt, a ghost, the psychic remnants of a man whose spirit might not know that he was dead, but had lingered on, long after his last true breath …

“Too many unknowns,” she decided, rubbing a weary hand across the back of her neck. She reached across to key a request into her commlock. “Commander?”

“Koenig here.” The Commander’s image stared at her out of the tiny screen. “You have an update for me?”

“Yes – and no,” she said, well aware of how that would frustrate him. He was still in Command Centre, and Tony, along with others, would be listening in; she would need to keep her report as unrevealing as possible. “Your conclusions are possible, and I cannot disprove them – but I cannot prove them, either. There is insufficient evidence to either confirm or deny the possibilities we have discussed. I’m sorry. I would very much like to know the answer to this puzzle – but the solution lies within the caverns, and not here on Alpha.”

Koenig frowned. “Helena has advised against re-entry to the complex until she can be sure our systems can completely purge the contamination – another ten, twelve hours at least. She’s working on a counteragent,” he added, “but – if our time there is restricted … you intimated that the plant may be dying. How long do you think …?”

“I have no idea,” Maya admitted. “It has survived for six years without regular exposure to a sun, and while the periphery is showing signs of decay, the central area seemed to be relatively healthy. We may have months to explore before the blight gets anywhere near the heart of the plant. On the other hand …” She hesitated to express the thought, but it was a necessary one. “If your conclusions are correct, then the time we have left to solve the puzzle may be far less. The evidence … may not last that long.”

His eyes reacted, but he schooled himself to keep his acknowledgement to a small nod. “Understood. We will return to the caverns as soon as Helena says it is safe to do so. Maya,” he added quietly. “Thank you.”

She didn’t understand why he’d say that. “I have found little that is helpful, Commander. I hope that we can find more tomorrow.”

“So do I,” he smiled. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning. Koenig out.”

He closed the link, and she reached out to do the same, still puzzling over his gratitude. She had warned that – if his friend truly survived – that he might not do so for much longer, and he was grateful? For the warning? For managing to convey the message without _actually_ conveying the message? Or for something else altogether?

Sometimes she just didn’t understand humans at _all._


	5. Part Four: Curiouser and Curiouser

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Lunar Expedition Wonderland, Year 6 – 2155 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Some fifteen hours later, the team reassembled in front of the makeshift airlock, ready to make another foray into the depths. Helena made the rounds with the hypo sprays she’d prepared, her carefully assembled concoctions designed to counteract rather than defend against the plants chemical concoctions. Her initial tests had indicated that the materials broke down fairly rapidly in the blood stream and examination suggested that the small amounts absorbed in the first expedition had been completely flushed from everyone’s systems within six or seven hours. 

“We are all clean – now,” she warned, “but be careful in there. Don’t eat – or drink – anything without checking with me first. Our physiologies seem to be able to shake off small doses, but I have no idea what higher concentrations might do. Long exposure, or really high concentrations may reduce the body’s ability to purge itself – and once these kind of chemicals begin to accumulate …” She paused, and Koenig caught the look she threw in his direction. “Then the body may begin to adapt, rather than react – creating a level of unnatural dependency and a potential breakdown of other metabolic processes.”

“You mean you’d get addicted to the stuff?” Marling – like the rest of them - pulled off her suit glove so that Helena could discharge the hypo directly into the veins at her wrist. 

“Not – exactly.” Helena was being firmly professional, all calm consideration and efficient activity – and a far cry from the woman who’d spent the previous evening fussing and playing with her young son. Their son. Koenig never forgot that – any more than he forgot that there was a woman under the Doctor’s veneer, a strong woman who was also warm, compassionate and loving - and as precious to him as the child she had gifted him with. “Not the way you would with nicotine, or cocaine … but the chemical balances of your body would have adjusted, and grown dependent on the presence of the materials. Even removed from the source, you might not be able to purge your system in the same way – or if you did … it might create imbalances, trigger metabolic failures.” She paused a second time, giving all three miners a stern look. “I can run dialysis on kidneys, rebalance liver functions, respond to insulin shifts, and probably keep you alive while your digestive systems run haywire, but – “ Her warning was pointed. “I can’t restart hearts poisoned by toxic shock. Especially if they’ve been overdosed with adrenaline. Understand? Don’t eat _anything_ – not until I’ve tested it and given it the okay.”

“No apples in Eden, huh?” Jo Webster threw a wry glance in his partner’s direction, and Alex Shewell grimaced a little embarrassedly. Koenig suspected that they’d spent the evening talking about what they might do with a good supply of real fruit. Make cider probably. Or wine. Shewell was almost as fanatic about creating recreational alcohols as Tony Verdeschi was. 

“Guess not. Not today, at least. You think any of this stuff will be safe, Dr Russell?”

She smiled. “Properly processed, yes. No crisp apples, Alex – but maybe apple pie. Eventually.”

“That would be good,” Marling said a little wistfully, replacing her glove with care. She was in a somewhat subdued mood, probably because – unlike the couples in the group, she’d not been able to share the wonders of their discovery with her partner. Hancock was currently uncommitted, and naturally stoic; Koenig had no idea whether he’d found the interdict to be a problem or not. “Weaning the babies on apple mush. Or – whatever it turns out to be. You want us to collect more specimens, Doctor?”

“Lots of them, Andi.” Helena’s smile was warm – making, for a brief moment, the two of them co-conspirators in the magic of motherhood. “All sizes, all colours, all shapes. Flowers too – the smaller ones, at least. The more materials we have to test, the more we will learn.”

They went in two by two as before, still in full suits but with their helmets stowed. Koenig had considered the possibility of ditching the suits altogether, but had decided to retain the precaution until they knew a little bit more about the underground world they had discovered. Helena had supported the decision, and not just because the inbuilt suit monitors would transmit useful data about any physiological reactions they might experience. She’d pointed out that carrying clean and uncontaminated air supplies might allow them a little longer to explore – not to mention it being a sensible safety backup when entering what was, essentially, a poisonous atmosphere. 

Not that it smelt like one. Koenig hadn’t forgotten the sweet and enticing scents that had eddied around him on their first visit, but, just as before, once beyond the initial cavern the depth and the richness of the plant’s perfumes sent his senses spinning. Alpha had a low key, carefully balanced atmosphere that held mere hints of scent – the practical taints of metal and plastic, the occasional eddy of the stuff they still ironically referred to as ‘coffee,’ the whisper of living things in the hydroponics centre or the solarium, and the soft waft of the carefully crafted perfumes that drifted from the living quarters. Nothing intrusive, and all of it long since settled in the Alphan psyche as the scent of … well, the scent of _Alpha_. It was light, unobtrusive and he hardly noticed it most of the time.

_This_ was heady. Every step, every brush of his hand as it pushed leaves and blossoms aside, stirred an almost tangible miasma of fragrances; deep woody tones competed with lighter floral ones, while sweet musks swirled through a symphony of sharp notes and ambered harmonies. The plant conducted its perfumes with the same intricate attentions it gave to its audible tones – a song of sound and scent that seduced the senses, eased the heart and soothed the soul.

_It would be,_ Koenig thought with a definite sense of irony, _very easy to lose yourself in here …_

No-one had yet raised the possibility that they might stumble over a long lost friend today – but he knew all of them were thinking about it. He certainly was, his mind distracted by a whole slew of ‘what if’s’ and ‘maybe’s.’ What would it have been like? To fall into this – this exotic garden, buried beneath the bleak surface of the moon? To find yourself lost and alone, cut off from everyone and everything you knew? To have to survive here, and go _on_ surviving, with all hope of rescue fading, and no real way to measure the passage of time …

Koenig suspected that, once the wonder of the place wore off, he would have found it an unbearable prison – but he wasn’t Victor Bergman, who'd been - not just a scientist, with a remarkably practical and pragmatic intellect – but also a philosopher, with a curious and open mind and a regard for the unknowns of the universe that occasionally bordered on metaphysical whimsy. Had he considered himself cursed by fate – or blessed by a miracle for some purpose – or purposes – that had not yet been revealed? Had he given up all hope? Or clung to some vague consideration that – in the end – things would work out, one way or the other?

It was Victor who’d always believed that they’d survived Breakaway for a reason. That someone – or something – was watching out for them. Had it been watching out for him on that day, so many years ago now? There had been no hope of his survival, and yet … 

“Commander?” Maya’s voice interrupted his musing; he looked across at her – and then past her, finding himself looking out into an incredible vista. The whole side of the cavern they had just entered was an open arch, the resultant space creating a raised atrium to the landscape beyond. Vines draped down across the opening on either side, a festoon of flowers hanging like theatre curtains drawn back to present a spectacular show. And it was spectacular – a vast, vaulted amphitheatre on a grand scale, a hidden world worthy of Verne or Burroughs, filled with light and life. 

“My god,” Koenig murmured, struggling, for a moment, to make sense of what he was seeing. The intricate twists and lacings of the central pillar, the sprawl of the terraces, the shimmer of the lake, and the slow, balletic descent of waterfalls …  
Lunar gravity reduced the expected thunder of falling water to a low murmur, the sound of it adding a hint of distant drums and temple bells to the cadence of the plants constant song. His eyes were drawn to the impact of the fall, the water not foaming the way it might in an earthly descent from such a height, but swelling out in undulating waves that then rippled back from the shore. It created an intricate, dancing pattern where each miniature wave met and interacted, filling the lake surface with delicate lines and swirls. Curving, delicate blooms bobbed and nodded as the waves broke along the shore line, their movement echoed and re-echoed across the rise of the terraces. The whole of the cavern was filled with subtle movements, the resonance of the waves on the water and the reaction to swirling air currents that danced across the expanse. 

“Now that,” Andi Marling announced with almost reverent certainty, “that’s - not something you see every day.”

“That’s not something you see _any_ day,” Shewell muttered. “Other than … today, I suppose …”

“It’s beautiful.” Helena’s words were soft. “But … impossible. Some of those flowers – they must be six – seven feet across?”

“Bigger,” Maya said, pointing towards the top of the central column. “Up there, they are the size of Eagles.” 

_The size of ...?_ Distance and dimensions clicked into sudden focus, and Koenig blinked, realising that what he was looking at was on a much grander scale than he’d first thought. “So the lake is …”

“At least half a mile in diameter, Commander. And the cave is large enough to generate atmospheric effects. Winds, and even clouds. Although some of that may be due to the waterfalls.”

Koenig stepped forward, assessing the shape and extent of the cavern ahead of them. “And this is where you were yesterday?”

“Yes.” She was quick to confirm the fact. “Although …”

He turned from contemplating the landscape in time to catch the bemused look that had chased across her sculpted features. “Although what?” he asked warily. She frowned.

“The colours have changed. Yesterday all of this – the flowers … they were red and violet and yellow …”

He turned back. The vista below him was bright with white and blue blossoms that bubbled out of the greenery – along with scatterings of orange and amber. “Is that possible?”

“None of this is theoretically possible, John.” Helena stepped over to join him. “But then – very little of what we’ve encountered on our journey has been within the expectations of human theory. The physics here are real enough – the influence of gravity on growth and the flow of water … but beyond that? Why would one plant need to generate so many variances in leaf or flower form? Why does it sing? And what purpose might be served by changing colours overnight? It’s clearly possible, since it – happened. But how or why? We just don’t know enough to speculate.”

“Maybe it just felt like a change,” Shewell muttered. Webster, who was carefully recording the scene with the high res video camera, stifled a soft snort. Marling grinned. Maya frowned.

Koenig shared a wary look with Helena, who shrugged. They’d both seen a lot of strange things over the years, and had learned not to make too many assumptions. “Maybe it did,” she said. 

“Maybe we’ll never know,” he countered. “We’re certainly not going to find out by standing up here and talking about it. We have two hours people. Let’s not waste any more of them.”

* * *

They entered the central cavern as a group, picking their way down the natural staircase of terraces and roots to be quickly swallowed up among the jungle of leaves and blossoms. The air was filled with the soft song of the plant, its cadences echoing in a subtle quiver that whispered through every leaf and branch. The sound sank into them, humming across their skin and resonating in their bones; not an unpleasant sensation, but still a slightly unsettling one. It was hot and tropical beneath the canopy, and Koenig found himself anticipating each brief emergence from the jungle as they reached the edge of a terrace or found a clearing that let them look up at the arch of roof overhead. Sweat gathered on his skin and heat in his lungs, so that even the lightest of breezes felt like heaven as he stepped from humid cover into open air and back again. The sweetness of the plant’s perfume seemed cloying beneath the leaves, but sprang back, fresh and fragrant again as his lungs drew in the cooler air. The shifting micro-climates probably helped moisture evaporate back into the air and assisted in the overall circulation of atmosphere through the caverns; it was a trick Alpha’s atmospheric engineers had been wrestling with ever since the base had been established, although no-one had yet suggested their problems might be solved by replacing the air filters with pot plants.

Maybe he would, once he was confident that this place could be safely opened up for general exploration.

“This is _so_ weird,” he heard Andi Marling murmur; she’d paused for a moment and her eyes were closed. “It’s like – like being in someone else’s dream …”

Koening frowned at the thought. There was an odd feel to the place, an undercurrent of presence that suggested – not observation, but acknowledgement. It didn’t feel as if they were being watched. No omniscient intelligence was observing or measuring them - but something knew they were there. And approved.

“Do you feel it?” he asked generally, glancing around his team. “As if there were something – the whole place, aware but dreaming?”

“An intelligence?” Helena questioned, her quiet pleasure at their surroundings collapsing into suspicious lines. The others looked equally concerned.

Koenig shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not the way we’d understand it, anyway.”

“Like Luton,” Maya said, stepping away from a dangle of vines and eyeing them with sudden distrust. “A vegetative consciousness.”

“No,” Koenig denied, still trying to pin down the illusive impressions. “Not like Luton … This is more – diffuse. More like …dreaming, as Andi said. And there’s no sense of hostility …” He shook his head a second time, dismissing the moment with impatient irritation. “Maybe I’m just letting the place get to me. That, or all this perfume is going to my head …” The comment clearly reassured Helena, who smiled with amused indulgence. Maya still looked concerned.

“If it is aware of us,” she said slowly, “that might explain …”

“It might.” Koenig interrupted abruptly, not wanting to discuss the thought that had clearly crossed her mind. Her theory that the plant had created – or recreated – the individual she had encountered had some merit, but he wasn’t willing to give it greater credence until there was clear evidence one way or the other. He _knew_ Victor was down here. Somewhere. They just had to find him …

“Let’s split up,” he suggested. “We’ll cover more ground that way. Alex, Jo – circle right, Helena – you take Andi and go left. Maya?” He pointed upwards. “Arial reconnaissance?” She nodded and immediately transformed, a shimmering shift into a brightly coloured parakeet. “I’ll head on down until I reach the lake shore,” he continued, long since determined to accept the Psychon’s abilities as routine, no matter how much they continued to impress him. “Remember we need specimens, and note all and any landmarks you find. Meet you all back here in an hour?”

They all nodded. The parakeet took to the wing, springing up into the air with a ruffle of wings and feathers. “If you find anything unusual,” Koenig called after her. “Report in immediately.”

“Unusual?” he heard Shewell mutter with a hint of disbelief. “In _this?_ ”

“Move,” he barked, and they did, a scattering of orange clad figures that were quickly obscured by the greenery. He waited until the last of them were out of sight and then lifted his commlock to thumb the operating button with practiced ease.

“Hancock?”

“Commander?” The man’s face was instantly on screen, the image a little degraded by distance and the intervening layers of rock, but otherwise clear and sharp.

“We’ve reached the central cavern and have dispersed to cover more ground. Tell Command Centre – tell Mr Verdeschi that it’s looking promising but I’ve nothing particular to report.”

Hancock nodded in acknowledgement. “Message received and understood, but – have you, Commander? Anything to report?”

Koenig allowed himself a small grin. Tony Versdeschi had been profuse in his recommendation for this man – ‘one of the best’ he’d said. He was right. 

“Not – yet,” he said. “Early days, though. Next contact in … half an hour? I’ll check in with the others and I’ll speak to you then. Koenig out.”

The commlock slipped neatly back into the loop at his belt, leaving his hands free to unhook one of the flat packed specimen boxes and open it out. Helena had sent Webster to requisition a bunch of them from the hydroponics unit the day before, and he’d arrived that morning with a pile that started with the half litre seed boxes and went all the way up to the 20 litre composting bins. Koenig had snagged some of the two and four litre containers, mentally earmarking them for a selection of fruit and flowers – not realising that he would need at least a 20 litre box to hold just one of the blossoms that currently dangled over his head. There were plenty of smaller specimens to hand though, so he set the inner strengthening rods with a quick flick, folded back the lid and tucked the box into the crook of his arm so that he could add to its contents as he walked.

Leaf, petal, whole blossom; his collection grew in both size and variety as he made his way across the remaining terraces, taking giant steps down an equally giant sized stairway. Drops of six, seven feet were nothing in lunar gee, and he danced through the jungle with ease, ducking under hanging vines and vaulting over arching roots with the confidence of an experienced astronaut. The sound of running water drew him as he descended yet another level; there was a pool at the base of the drop where water gathered, and after it a run off which seemed to be heading in the same direction as he was. He paused to collect what looked suspiciously like a lily blossom from among a number that were growing up through the water, and then followed the water’s flow as it twisted through a narrow channel before plunging over the edge.

It was amazing just how much water there was in the caverns, deep beneath the surface of what had once been thought of as an arid ball of rock and moon dust. Koenig remembered, from some conference or other that he’d attended once, the eminent scientist who’d solemnly predicted that water could and would be found on the Moon – but only in the form of ice crystals, and only in minute amounts. He could imagine the look on the man’s face if he’d been told about this … and the smile the thought brought to his lips twisted into a haunted one with the memory that followed it.

The memory of Victor’s wry and gentle response to the man’s earnest theories. 

_So little that we know for sure, John. So much we still have to learn. Theories are all very well, but – sometimes? Sometimes the best solution is simply to go and look ..._

They had come to the moon. They had looked – and they’d found layers of ice, trapped beneath the lunar surface; mostly the remnants of ancient comets, vaporised on impact as they’d bombarded both Earth and the moon in the early days of their formation. The discovery had negated the requirement to transport water from the Earth and had allowed Alpha to establish relatively extensive hydro gardens that could recycle air and water with minimal energy demand. But all of that paled in comparison to the abundance surrounding him now – an abundance that bubbled through innumerable streams and fed the slowly thundering waterfalls.

Maybe the plant had arrived on one of those comets, a seed safely nestled at its heart – the impact deep and hard enough for a nurturing cocoon of ice and atmosphere to remain around it. And maybe others had landed on the more active and volatile surface of the Earth, flowering there only briefly before being subsumed in the churn and chaos of a still developing world.

In which case …

Koenig frowned down at his specimen box, re-evaluating the apparent co-incidences of semi-familiar shapes and colours. What if the plant were not an alien intruder in the solar system – but an ancient _ancestor?_ The last, lingering specimen of a species that had once flourished on Earth?

The seeds from which all life had sprung …

He might have pursued that thought further, but an odd noise caught his attention. A splash or a gloop – the sound of something hitting water, not that far away. It could have been a random event, one of the bigger leaves caught by a breeze, a flower falling under its own weight, but it had sounded more purposeful than that – and it couldn’t have been any of his team, because all them were some distance away by now. He carefully put the specimen box down and crept to the edge of last terrace, grabbing at an overhanging branch so that he could lean over and peer down at the pool at that lay some ten to twelve feet below. Water was descending into it, a slow curtain tumbling from the upper stream before dancing across a smoothly curved root and down a series of small cascades. An overspill fed a further stream, one that widened out to become a trickling layer over a sudden jut of polished rock before dripping down into the surface of the lake, some thirty or forty feet away.

The low cliff face was draped with a tangle of vines. Berries the size of basketballs bubbled out of them, their deep, rich purple skins offset against a flutter of wide, ivy like leaves. There were one or two of them lying at the edge of the pool, half in, half out of the water. He’d just begun to reason that it had been one of those that he’d heard fall – when something gave one of the hanging vines a determined shake. Another berry fell, bouncing off the curve of the water brushed root to land, with another soft _sploosh_ , in the deeper end of the pool.

It rolled under for a moment, then floated to the surface – where a hand, a _human_ hand, reached out of the shimmer of leaves and snagged it, pulling it safely to shore.

Koenig’s heart skipped a beat.

He’d thought that he’d prepared himself for this. Thought that he’d understood what finding a living man – a lost soul – in the middle of this impossible garden would mean. But nothing had prepared him for the sheer impact of the moment, the shift from _possibility_ to visible, tangible experience of there really being someone living in the caverns. Even though that mere glimpse of a hand didn’t prove anything beyond the _someone_ , a furious churn of emotion rooted John Koenig to the spot; a sudden swirl of hope and fear, shock and delight, stomach clenching anxiety and heart punching joy momentarily overwhelmed both physical action and rational thought. Years of loss and grief – the regret of unspoken words, the lack of wise counsel and the nagging absence of a trusted friend - slammed through him like a whirlwind, leaving him shaken and breathless. 

Vegetation rustled as something – someone – started to move away from the pool; brief flashes of orange flickered from among the dance of leaves and blossoms, the dip and sway of the flowers tracking a meandering path that headed towards the lake. Koenig pulled himself together with an effort, quickly realising that he had to follow, or he might lose the chance to; berries squelched under his boots as he hastily swung himself over the edge and clambered down the tangle of vines. 

He jumped the last couple of feet, pushing off from the rock face so that he would clear the pool and land directly in his quarry’s wake. Far from being hard to track, the trail proved to be incredibly easy to follow: whoever it was ahead of him, they were humming to themselves – a semi-tuneful echo of the plants orchestrations that both complemented and counterpointed the ever present sound.

Koenig didn’t think it was intended to be a tune, anymore than the plant was actually singing – but the sound of it was so familiar that it almost hurt.

And then it stopped.

“Victor?” Koenig called before he could stop himself. He took one more step through the jungle, and found himself right by the lake, where the low curve of a wide root emerged from the water. The whole of the lakeside – and from the look of it, the lake floor as well – was carpeted by an interweaving of the massive root system; flowers and branches hung down above the water, while others grew up from it, so that it was difficult to judge where the jungle ended and the lake began. Not that Koenig was looking to make the judgement. In fact, he was hardly looking at the lake at all. His gaze was caught and held by the figure that was perched at the edge of it, wrapped in the remnants of a bright orange space suit, bony fingers sunk deep into the pulp of the purple berry.

Reality warred with memory; this skeletal and haggard scarecrow, his beard a tangle of bushy gray and purple juice, his hair wild and ragged around his emaciated face and skull, was momentarily a stranger, a figure escaped from a painting by Bosch. He was – as Maya had described – little more than skin and bones, impossibly gaunt, incredibly fragile … and then he spoke, and the sound of that voice, so familiar, so often missed, clicked the final piece of the puzzle into place, adding veracity to hope - and horror to revelation. 

“Hallo, John” Victor Bergman said brightly, “I’ve been wondering when you’d turn up again.”

* * *

Later, Koenig would realise that the sequence of events – as they played out – were entirely for the best. That any attempt to confront or precipitously retrieve the ghost that haunted the plant’s domain would have been ill conceived: the sheer fragility of Bergman’s health and sanity dictated the need for a more careful and considered plan of rescue rather then the immediacy that emotion demanded. Fortunately – for both of them – the shock of the encounter was sufficient to curb Koenig’s instinctive impulses and replace them with more cautious hesitation. He didn’t know how to react - especially since his friend seemed totally unsurprised at seeing him there.

“Victor?” he queried warily. Bergman’s eyes had dropped back to the fruit in his hands. He looked up with a puzzled smile that turned into a sudden and delighted grin.

“No,” he counted, denying his identity with amusement. “Ben Gunn, remember? Dreaming of cheese … Or Crusoe, looking for footprints in the sand.” His expression dropped back into vague puzzlement. “It’s not Friday,” he said. “So you can’t be. Nice of you to drop by, though. Talk to me.” His glance darted upwards, to where the central column twisted out into the arches of the roof. “ _She’s_ ignoring me again. Too caught up in her own concerns.” He sighed, and returned to his meal, scooping up a handful of the berry’s flesh and biting into it with clear relish. Purple juice ran through his fingers and into his beard, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“It’s – been a long time.” Koenig hazarded, wondering if the man in front of him was aware of just _how_ long. He was acting as if he’d last seen him only days or hours ago …

“Mmm?” Bergman looked up with a frown. “Still here, John? Was there something ..?” He paused, his eyes narrowing in thought for a moment. “No,” he decided, shaking his head. “No, nothing I …” He let the matter go with soft snort and a wry smile. “I don’t suppose it matters, really. I’ve nothing better to do than talk to myself. Especially as she isn’t. Talking to me, that is.” The grin that followed the thought was unsettling – a decidedly wilder grimace than Koenig was used to seeing on a man renowned for, and rightfully proud of, a reputation for reasoned thought and considered analysis. 

“They do say,” he continued conversationally, “that the first sign of madness is talking to yourself. But then, I’ve been doing that for years. Which might be a sign of something, I suppose …” The berry slid, unnoticed, from the hands that lifted to help articulate his thoughts. Animated, eloquent hands, supporting exposition with familiar emphasis. “Hearing _her_ talk to me? Well, that was a little worrying – at first, only - she’s real. In her own particular way. It’s when the things that you see that aren’t there – the memories, the people, the loved and the lost and the longed for … when they start talking back? _That’s_ when you know. You know?” The question was wry, offered with a conspiratorial smile and a note of self mockery. Koenig found himself nodding in response.

“Yes,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He did know. Knew, with pained comprehension, that evidence of Helena’s predications, her analysis of the potential effects of long term exposure to the plant’s perfumes, was being played out, right in front of him.

_Distraction, obfuscation … hallucinations …_

The horror lay – not in the realisation that he’d been mistaken for a mere illusion, a manifestation of a man’s less than stable grasp on reality – but in the understanding that the man concerned was aware of his own irrationality, and was – in his own way – rationalising the encounter. 

Clinging stubbornly to the remnants of his sanity by _acknowledging_ that he was insane.

“Of course you know,” Bergman was chuckling softly. “Because I know. The way I know you’re not actually there.” He stared at his berry stained hands, turning them over and back again with slow fascination. “I hoped for it once. Long ago and far away. But the moon turned and time ticked away. All I get is phantoms and shadows. Unanswerable wishes, impossible dreams …” His sigh was soft, but heartfelt. “A host of furious fancies …” 

“What if – “ Koenig was hesitant in asking, unsure of how the question might be received. “What if I were more than that? What if rescue were to come?”

The eyes that lifted to stare across at him were suddenly stark, a haunted, hunted look that chillingly emphasised the emaciated angles that surrounded them. “Is _that_ what’s bothering me?” The stare held calculation, a studied assessment of motive and motivation. The mind behind it had once juggled gravitational analysis and quantum relativity with ease; Koenig had no idea what it might be juggling now, but the intensity of the look made him feel a little like a laboratory specimen, pinned to a microscope slide. “Bringing me the temptation of hope, John? That’s not your usual role. Or is that the point? We both know it’s not going to happen. Not after so long …” Bergman sighed a second time, abandoning his directed study to stare out across the lake instead, his shoulders slumping with resignation. “You know what I think? I think you ordered operation Exodus years ago. Led your people to a new world. Alpha lies empty and echoing above me … and here I am. The old man in the moon, left all alone …”

He chuckled at the thought. It was a slightly brittle sound, a hint of hysteria underlying the amusement and self mockery. “How he longed for the mirth of the populous Earth,” he muttered, “And the sanguine blood of men.” Soft words slid into a biting growl as he relished the irony of the quote, and he climbed to his feet, spreading his arms to offer the rest of it up in challenging declamation. “He coveted song and laughter long, And viands hot and wine. Eating pearly cakes of light snowflakes, And drinking thin _moonshine._ ” He held the dramatic pose for a moment, arms spread wide and his head thrown back – then relaxed with another of those brittle chuckles, clearly amused at his own nonsense.

The upward push – a balletic move in lunar gee – had revealed the awkward twist in his left leg. It was an old break, badly healed, and which on Earth would have left him severely crippled. Here it simply added distortion to his angled and famished frame; his laughter done, he limped down to the edge of the lake like a puppet with a broken string, so that he could reached down and retrieve the fallen berry from where it bobbed on the water. Koenig felt his heart clench. This man was his oldest and dearest friend, and it hurt to see him like this, a shattered skeleton of a man, broken, befuddled and believing himself abandoned. He looked – he looked old. Old beyond his years and fragile with it, as if the merest breath would blow him away.

“Not sure about snowflake cakes.” The observation was wry. Bergman had returned to talking to himself, his friend’s presence not really forgotten, but seemingly dismissed as unimportant. “A little moonshine though? That would be nice …”

“Victor …” Koenig had no idea what to say or do. The hope that had flared with confidence as soon as he’d recognised the name on the lost helmet was now a fluttering, panicked creature, desperate to fly and just as desperate not to fall – not to fail this shattered remnant of his friend, and in doing so lose him all over again. 

“Later, John.” The wave was casual dismissal, a gesture tossed over the shoulder as its originator limped away. “Give my love to Helena …”

Koenig hesitated, half poised to resume pursuit, but conscious that doing so might be counter productive. The situation was way outside his understanding or expertise, and his expectations of a few moments of startled surprise, a joyful reunion, and a triumphal return had been quashed almost soon as he’d laid eyes on the gaunt remnant of his friend. How fragile was the man currently walking away from him as if he didn’t exist? The wrong word, the wrong action, might shatter him beyond repair – and even if it didn’t, then Alpha’s artificial gravity almost certainly would. He’d spent years adjusting to this environment, learning to function, to survive in it – and dragging him home might turn out to be the worst thing he could do.

Although, from the look of things, leaving him where he was, wasn’t going to be much of a solution either.

He needed advice - an expert opinion from someone who could assess the risks and identify the surest, safest option. Which, thinking about it, he’d probably just been given. _Give my love to Helena …_

“I will,” he promised softly, and steeled himself to watch as his friend walked away, following his every move until he vanished, once again, into the depths of the plant’s domain.  


* * *

Extract from the secondary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Chief Security Officer, Anthony Verdeschi: Year 6 – 2155 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Tony Verdeschi was feeling antsy. One of those restless, something is not right, feelings which put him on edge and heightened the inevitable perceptive paranoia that every good security chief maintained as a matter of principle. He’d paid attention to all the official reports, read the logs, watched the videos, talked to relevant people – and after all that, or perhaps because of all that, he knew that he was being left out of some kind of loop.

Which was the Commander’s prerogative, of course, but knowing that didn’t make the nagging _something’s going on here_ feeling go away. 

He wasn’t the only one feeling that their Commander was holding something back either; a number of people had found time to sound their Security Chief out on why so little information was coming back from the daily exploration of the caverns. Verdeschi wasn’t sure quite how several hours of video, boxes of biological specimens, and a whole slew of mapping data equated to ‘so little,’ but since he was pretty sure that Koenig and the exploration team were keeping _something_ back, he’d found it hard to be completely diplomatic with the people feeling bold – or entitled – enough to ask.

He trusted John Koenig – and he trusted Maya, who was almost certainly in the loop that he wasn’t – but it still didn’t feel good to be left out, whatever the reason for it might be. The safety of the base was his concern, and this discovery – the existence of a huge complex hidden deep beneath the surface of the moon – was a complete unknown when it came to the ‘assessment of threat’ list. The suspicion of secrecy – the suggestion that information might be being withheld – was also generating a different kind of threat; potentially disruptive tensions arising from wild conjecture and ill-informed speculation. It was hard to dispel rumours when you didn’t have clear evidence to counter them.

He didn’t know which was worse; wild rumours which had no hope of being anywhere near the truth, or suspicious conspiracy theories that cut a little to close to home. What he did know was that putting the two things together was a recipe for disaster, and had he been in whatever loop it was that the Commander was keeping him out of, he’d have been busy pointing that out. As it was, all he could do was smile and nod, and deny all knowledge - which worked pretty well for most, but barely deflected Paula Abanga’s opening salvos when she turned up early for the weekly Resources allocation committee … and found out that Koenig was running late.

Abanga had been Alpha’s personnel officer before Breakaway – one of Simmond’s crowd, assigned to deal with paperwork and contractual concerns – and after it had been assigned to assist with the Resources management team, where she had carved a comfortable little niche for herself, allocating work, running meetings, and undertaking innumerable inspections and supply reviews. She had the mind of a bureaucrat, the soul of an auditor, and the confident ambition of a high school prom queen; any one of them would make her difficult to deal with, but the combination was a decidedly daunting one. It was fortunate, in a way, that her ambitions focused on social standing, rather than formal power; she was extremely efficient at her job, and ran a tight and effective team - even if that meant others had to complete mountains of paperwork and keep meticulous records to keep them (and her) satisfied. Simmonds had probably been grooming her to follow in Gorski’s footsteps, but it turned out that, after Breakway, she’d been more than content to establish her own minor kingdom with the Quartermaster as her nominal consort, rather than aim for the higher echelons of Command. 

That didn’t stop her from playing at politics, though; she was the sort of person who liked to score points and win concessions – or support – from her seniors and her peers, and she didn’t seem to care who she stepped on to do it. And – just like Versdechsi – she hated being left out of the loop.

Whatever that loop might be.

“I don’t suppose you know what they’re finding down there,” she asked, with what was probably meant as a friendly and conspiratorial smile. It was about as friendly as the smile on a Great White, and as conspiring as any Lucrecia Borgia might have managed in the day – cool, calculating, and backed with a knowing smirk. Verdeschi - was who busy wrestling with the pot of pseudo coffee that was the primary perk of attending the meeting in the first place – answered it with a wary smile of his own.

“A mystery growing in an impossibility,” he said, passing her a filled cup in the hope that might distract her. It didn’t. “Or – maybe, an impossibility growing in a mystery. You’ve seen the initial footage, I take it?”

Of course she had. Everybody had – those few short minutes of revelation taken immediately after the discovery were being played and replayed across the whole of the base. Koenig hadn’t authorised the general release of any further material, although he had promised there would be more to come.

“It looks amazing. Like – paradise.”

Verdeschi had been hearing that a lot. He’d also been hearing Koenig – and Dr Russell – firmly denying the idea. “Well,” he hedged, “I suppose it looks lush, and exotic, but – I’ve never thought as paradise being lit by phosphorescence …”

“Oh - technicalities,” she dismissed with a practised laugh. “There’s a whole world down there, Mr Verdeschi. Filled with fruit and flowers and acres of green and living things. After six years on Alpha, that _has_ to be paradise. Doesn’t it?”

She had a point. The Alphans were starving for the great out doors – longing for open air, forgetting what it was like to walk in the rain, to stand on the beach, or tramp through woods and meadows. But the environment created by an alien life form, buried deep beneath the lunar surface, was hardly likely to meet _that_ expectation – no matter how familiar it might seem at first.

“Besides,” she went on speculatively, “even if its not perfect, it’s still going to be a huge opportunity, don’t you think? All that space – and all those resources? Wood and other organic materials. Clean water. And air. Fresh, fragrant air …”

“Ah!” Verdeschi had her on that one. He’d seen the summary of the medical report that Dr Russell had filed after the first expedition. “No. Fragrant, possibly, but – dangerous. Contaminated with … well, hallucinogenics of some kind.”

Her snort of dismissal was ladylike – but still a snort. “As if that’s a problem,” she said. “The Commander and his team have spent hours down there. Can’t be _that_ dangerous. You know what I think?” He suspected that he did, but she didn’t give him a chance to say so. “ _I_ think that’s just the Commander being uber-cautious as usual. The slightest hint of something out of the ordinary, and he recalls exploratory missions, grounds pilots, closes off parts of the base … well, this isn’t some distant world that may or may not be suitable for settlement. And it isn’t about the all or nothing of operation Exodus. This is a new world right under our feet. And I think we should be given a chance to explore it.”

“So do I,” a warm voice laughed from behind her. Sarah-Lee Courtney stepped into the gap by the coffee machine and reached for a cup, giving Verdeschi a sympathetic wink as she did so. “But only after the Commander has assessed the risks and decided how they should be handled. Come _on_ , Paula,” she smiled, “they only found the place a couple of days ago. Give the Commander a chance. If this really is what it seems to be, then I’m sure he’ll let us loose on it soon enough. You can’t be that eager to take on extra work, surely?”

Verdeschi grinned at the subtle dig in that last remark. Where Abanga was all about the meetings and the paperwork, Courtney was a primary component of the unsung ingenuity that kept Alpha functioning on a daily basis. She’d had something to do with project management for the civilian science teams before Breakway, and had moved across to the QM’s department on the reluctant recommendation of Professor Bergman, who’d had nothing but praise for her competency. Her primary field was applied mathematics, but while she still spent time sorting and assuring complicated and arcane calculations, her day job focused on the maintenance of the resources catalogue: she’d a real knack for keeping track of _everything_ – raw materials, processed components, spares, refurbished parts, recycled supplies – and she did it with a quiet efficiency that made her indispensable in any number of ways. 

“Well, no …” Abanga admitted reluctantly, “but …”

“Personally, I can’t wait,” Courtney confided to Veredschi, whose grin widened at the genuine enthusiasm in her words. He’d fallen for her aristocratic looks – and manners – early in their acquaintance, and had even made an attempt or two to pursue her back in the day. She’d let him down _very_ gently, and not taken any offense – and they’d been good friends ever since. “But you know me.”

“I sure do, Princess.” He took the opportunity to escort her to her chair, leaving her colleague frowning after the two of them, probably trying to work out if she’d won or lost points in that particular encounter. “They should have made ‘overachiever’ your middle name.”

She laughed. “I think maybe they did,” she admitted. “You do know,” she added, letting him gallantly pull out her chair so she could sit down, “that you’re one of only three people I let get away with calling me that?”

“Yes.” He pulled out the chair next to her and settled into it, cradling his still hot cup of … well, _coffee._ “I do. Hey,” he added in amused defence, “not my fault. I didn’t start it.”

“No.” Her smiled became a little pensive. “But you did spend all that time hanging around the science section trying to pluck up the courage to ask me out. You must have heard the Professor call me that so often … “ She sighed. “I miss him, you know? Even now. He always had time for me. Respected my work, asked for my input … valued me for – well, _me_. The nickname was just … his little joke.”

“T’s why I use it.” Verdeschi’s come-back held amused sympathy. He’d probably been less than background noise for the busy Professor back in those days, but their paths had crossed often enough for him to develop both respect and admiration for the man. Part of that admiration stemmed from his obvious affection for this lovely young woman, whom he’d mentored and supported with great generosity of spirit. She hadn’t been his only student, of course, but Verdeschi hadn’t been trying to court any of _them_. 

“No, it’s not,” she corrected archly, then grinned. “But I know you mean it affectionately. And he didn’t know what some people had been calling me – he’d have had … words … if he did.”

She hadn’t been the _Ice Princess_ for a long time now – and most of the less than mannered idiots who’d called her that, back when she’d first been stationed on the base, were dead, or long since left behind. Verdeschi had had one or two ‘words’ himself – although she didn’t know that, and didn’t need to now. “Yeah, I can imagine he might. I can imagine Ravenna having a word or two, too …”

“With a length of fueling pipe and a wicked look in her eye?” Courtney smiled at the idea of her five foot nothing girlfriend taking on an entire bunch of Luna Corps Marines. 

“Oh yeah.” Verdeschi’s smile was just as wide. He might be spoken for these days – even if in an _unspoken_ way – but the thought of Ravenna Rybak in martial motion? Pure poetry …

“All right, people, let’s get this meeting underway.” Koenig swept into the room like a whirlwind, Dr Russell caught up in the turbulence behind him. His expression was gruff. Hers was troubled. They’d clearly been arguing about something – and neither of them were happy about where it had ended. Verdeschi – who had started to relax a little – felt his shoulders snap back into immediate tension. There _was_ something going on – some secret Koenig was keeping, and about which, from the looks of things, Dr Russell was concerned. That set all sorts of alarm bells ringing in Verdeschi’s head; he really, really hated being left out of the loop, especially when what was inside the loop started to go sour. The alarm bells continued to ring, softly, right through the meeting. Koenig’s usual method of dealing with the resources issues was to sit back and let the rest of them sweat it out, but this time round he was terse and impatient, snapping out decisions almost before there’d been a chance to discuss all the options. Helena went on looking distracted, and Maya didn’t turn up at all. 

_Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,_ Verdeschi decided, and – as the meeting grew to a close – half rose to his feet so he could intercept the Commander before he could sweep away. The move earned him an irritated glare that relaxed- quite unexpectedly – into a wry grin.

“Et tu, Brute?” Koenig questioned, throwing an equally wry glance in Helena Russell’s direction. “Please, Tony – not today. We’ve an – issue or two to sort out, but … nothing you need worry about.”

He didn’t believe that for a minute – but the sudden shift from tension to amusement suggested that, what ever the ‘issue’ was, it wasn’t going to be resolved by the simple expedient of adding a few more marines. Or even one security officer. Who was now a little less concerned, but even more curious. “You sure about that?” he asked, and the wry grin twisted with a hint of self mockery.

“I’m sure,” Koenig said. He clasped Verdeschi’s shoulder with confident reassurance. “You’ve got enough on your plate keeping an on eye on things up here, haven’t you? Let me – us – deal with a few loose ends in our new back yard, and then … _then_ we’ll start talking about yard patrols. Okay?”

His nod was a reluctant one. “Okay. But – don’t take too long.” He threw a quick – and pointed look at Abanga, who was busy cross checking the meeting’s action points with her team, “The natives are getting restless. And I can’t guarantee to hold them back once they start storming the stockade …”

The grip on his shoulder tightened in a moment of sympathy. “I know. But this’ll be sorted pretty soon. One way – or the other.”

Did he imagine the brief shadow that flickered through his Commander’s eyes at the thought that he might fail in his intent – what ever that might be? For a moment, Koenig looked impossibly weary, weighted with grief and wrestling with some inner pain – and then the look was gone again, replaced by a reassuring smile.

Which didn’t reassure his security chief at _all._


	6. Part Five: All persons more than a mile high to leave the court!

Extract from the secondary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Chief Science Officer, Maya: Year 6 – 2156 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Maya was stretching her wings. Literally stretching them: spreading pinions to catch the updraft and ride the thermals up towards the vaulted roof of the cavern. It was early morning back on Alpha – far too early for most, with the night shift slowly winding down and the day shift barely stirring from their beds. She had no idea why she’d felt the urge to return to the plants domain so soon, but there must have been something nagging at her: something that had disturbed her sleep and brought her to an early wakefulness. She’d hadn’t wanted to disturb the Commander with so little justification for concern, so she’d contented herself with leaving a message, and had headed down to continue her explorations alone.

She was realising – with a little hindsight – that entering the caverns alone and without backup was probably not one of the wisest decisions she’d ever taken, but the nagging sense of urgency that had woken her had also driven her to make her way in haste. There were few things that could match the speed of a Girn’ck running beast, and even if she’d started with companions, she would have soon left them – and the buggy transporting them – far behind. And once within the plants domain she’d taken to the air on powerful wings, covering the distance to the central cavern in a third of the time it would have taken her to walk.

Koenig would chastise her, of course. She’d expect him too. But her arrival at the heart of the complex had provided more definite evidence for her concerns, and had she not set out when she had it would have been several hours before any of them had realised that dramatic – and potentially dangerous – events had been set in motion.

She hadn’t understood that things were in motion when she’d first arrived. The signs of change reflected many of the things she’d seen the day before, with the most obvious of those being the flowers – which had all turned a brilliant white, making it look as if practically every surface in the place had been scattered with sugar frosting overnight. Had she entered – and remained – at ground level, it might have taken her some time to recognise that the progression of change was a harbinger of something far more consequential, but her aerial perspective had allowed her a better oversight of what was happening. It wasn’t just the flowers; the song of the plant had changed too, its harmonious murmuring deepening into a low and disturbing moan. From the air it was possible to see how all the waterfalls were dying away, their balletic cascades stuttering into hesitant and diminished descent – and her first pass revealed that the water level in the lake was also dropping, its surface churning and rippling where the roots beneath it had begun to move. 

She flew further up and further in, wheeling round so that she could see how the whole of the cavern was in motion, everything shifting and stretching, with slow but determined effort.

It was a tortuous process. Inch by agonising inch, the column at the centre of the cavern was twisting itself tighter, gradually drawing the crystal mass at its heart down towards the distant ground. The roots and vines above it were unravelling at the same pace, the distorted tensions that the movement created starting to open the upper structure out, draping and spreading it into a complex net. 

The lower structure was coiling down like a tensioned spring.

Maya turned into a dive, circling the central column and hearing it creak and groan as the descent continued. It would be several hours before the central mass reached the base of its supporting column, but, if what she suspected were true, it might not need to be lowered that far. All it needed was to retract far enough to store sufficient energy …

A sudden, quivering note of sound – a plaintive cry that rose above the general murmur of effort – rang out across the lake. It was so sharp and clear that Maya reacted to it as if it were a call for help, spinning and twisting in search of its origin. Except that it didn’t have an origin; it seemed to have echoed in from all directions, resonating like a note captured inside the instrument that made it. 

The voice that answered it though – _that_ came from a single and obvious source.

“ _Now_ you’re talking to me,” the old man complained, the comment heavy with amused irony. He was sitting on a cluster of twisted roots at the edge of the lowest terrace, right above what had been the edge of the lake; the perfect vantage point to observe the measured unravelling of – well, almost _everything._ Maya sought a perch somewhere above and behind him, wanting to observe without being observed herself. He didn’t seem to have noticed her presence, which added further weight to the Commander’s assessment of who and what he might be. It was highly unlikely that a construct, intended to interact with human intruders would be programmed to respond to the _plant_ in such a way, especially if there were no humans present to trigger its programme in the first place – and there was no way that an alien organism could ape the kind of irritatingly _human_ behaviour she was currently witnessing. The old man – the Professor – was observing events with delighted fascination, seemingly oblivious to any risk concerning his own wellbeing. Most creatures – intelligent, rational, sentient creatures – would have been heading for the relative safety of the outer caverns by now, but humans – as Maya had come to observe during her time on Alpha, were not entirely rational, even at the best of times. True, the influence of the plant’s chemical concoctions were almost undoubtedly at work, but she wasn’t watching a man who was unaware of his surroundings or the events playing out in them. She was looking at someone who – having realised the import of those events – had acknowledged them, accepted what they implied, and had picked out the best seat in the place so he could watch them unfold.

And that – if nothing else – convinced her that he _was_ human, and very much the man Koenig thought him to be.

“I know you’ve had other things on your mind,” he was saying, absently shifting his shoulders as the roots that formed his seat shifted a little in the pattern of the greater dance. His fingers were idly caressing the smoothness of the wood beneath them; each stroke summoned another of those quivering notes, sending them rippling through the deeper harmonies with heart aching clarity. “But I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

The notes deepened. Were they coming from the wood in response to his touch, or were they truly the voice of the plant, speaking to a beloved companion? They held the echo of a regretful lament.

“Not long now.” The observation was somehow both wry and reassuring. His eyes were fixed on the crystal mass as it continued its slow descent. “Old endings, new beginnings. About time, too. You’re too old to care, and I’ve long since outstayed my welcome. Lived past my usefulness – to you, and to all those other people, too, The ones happily living their lives without me. One last moment of glory. Yours, that is. I’m just an insignificant mote of dust who once dreamed that he talked to God. I wonder,” he breathed, pausing to draw one long, quavering note from the wood. “Would you still sing for me? Afterwards, that is? With all your work done, and finally laid to rest?”

There was assurance in the note that followed; a soft and certain confirmation that he silenced with a sudden – and determined – convulsion of fingers. Maya watched him press his palm firmly to the wood, adding the low note the action summoned to the general sob of sound. “Don’t,” he said. “No need for promises. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. The rest … is silence.”

* * *

She hadn’t expected anyone to be there as she hastily stepped through the airlock and back into the rough cut tunnels beyond. It was still early – there was still time – but every moment she took felt like one moment too many. Urgency had sent her fleeing from the events unravelling at the heart of the plant – an urgency driven by a terrified understanding of what might be about to happen. A ‘might be’ that would strike the Commander of Moonbase Alpha to his heart, and wrap her in yet another layer of eternal guilt. She’d not been able to save her Father, and that failure had haunted her ever since; now she was racing to save another soul, one who had given up all hope of rescue – who not only thought that rescue would not come, but who sincerely believed that rescue _could_ not come. 

But it could, and it would, if only she could reach the man who had rescued _her…_

“It’s too risky, John.”

It wasn’t silence that greeted her return to Alpha’s atmosphere. It was voices. The _right_ voices, the ones she needed to find.

“Even if he has survived,” Helena was saying, her voice denying the possibility even as she acknowledged it, “then his continuing to do so will be dependent on incredibly delicate balances – or misbalances - in his metabolism. He’ll be – like an addict. Soaked in the plant’s chemistries. Sustained by the scents in the air as much as the food in his stomach. Which probably isn’t very much, going by what you and Maya saw. Take him out that environment and it’s more than likely that _everything_ will go haywire. And he’s been living in lunar gravity for years. Add the pressures of exposure to Earth gravity and - I couldn’t begin to predict what might result. Stress fractures and breathing problems at best. At worst? Metabolic crisis, blood poisoning, organ failure …”

They were both standing by the buggy they’d arrived in; the mining team had been in the one ahead of them and Maya had to apologetically dance around it and them, dodging the swing of equipment boxes as they were being offloaded. She had no time to spare to slow down – or explain.

“Are you saying,” Koenig interjected grimly, “that bringing him home to Alpha will kill him?”

“John – “ Helena began, in conciliatory tones. Maya arrived beside her, interrupting her words with some slightly breathless ones of her own.

“Leaving him where he is will do it a lot quicker, Commander.”

They both spun towards her, Koenig’s expression creasing with concern and alarm. “What do you mean? Has something happened?”

“Something _is_ happening,” Maya said. “The plant …” She took a deep breath, realising that a panicked report would be counterproductive. She had to be clear. And succinct. “When I first met – Professor Bergman,” she began, “he told me … he told me that _she_ was going to seed. I’d thought he was speaking metaphorically; that he was referencing the plant’s slow decline. But I was wrong.” 

She had everyone’s attention by now. “He meant it literally. The plant is dying – but it can, and _will_ survive through one final act of life. The crystal mass on the central column? It’s not just a dying flower. It’s a seed pod.”

“A seed pod?” Koenig frowned. “But …” Realisation dawned – along with a sudden flare of horror. “This is a space borne organism. Its seeds would have to escape lunar gravity. Which means …”

“Explosive decompression,” Helena completed, her eyes going wide. “If the system is opened to space, the atmosphere will be violently expelled.” Her eyes darted towards the hastily constructed airlock. “Will our seals hold?”

It was a sensible concern, but not one Maya held. She’d had plenty of time to check assumptions and calculations on her hasty flight in search of help, and if there were any risk to Alpha, it was an extremely slim one indeed. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” she said. “From what I’ve seen, the primary ejection mechanism appears to be mechanical – the column is being drawn down into huge coils, creating a naturally tensioned spring. When it triggers the mass will be ejected – which will release a portion of atmosphere – but the plant’s own defences will probably react to that, sealing off the peripheral caverns and quickly preventing further loss from the main area. Even so there will be a pressure drop, and associated heat variances. The lake – what’s left of it – will probably freeze.”

“How long?” Koenog was beginning to realise this wasn’t a theoretical exercise.

“Any time,” she told him bleakly. “When I left the mass had already descended a third of the way.”

Understanding dawned. “He was there, wasn’t he. We have to get him out.”

“And quickly,” Maya agreed. “Commander – I can’t be certain, but … I think – I think the plant may have required some kind of external stimulus to trigger its seeding cycle. The Professor might have arrived by accident, but once he was there – _she_ took care of him. Protected him. Because she needed him. But once she’s seeded …”

“We _have_ to get him out,” Koenig repeated forcefully. “Right now.”

“Just like that?” Helena’s reaction was horrified. “John, I’ve just explained …”

“I know.” His snap wasn’t angry – just determined. “But we have no choice … wait a minute … Helena? Do we still have the old training lab set up? The one we used to assess responses to gravity and pressure changes? ”

“The iso-lab?” Helena frowned for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I think so. We’re not training long distance astronauts of course, but … we’ve had no reason to remove or cannibalise the equipment. Oh!” Her frown became a momentary smile of realisation – and then lapsed back into more pensive lines. “Okay … We can reduce the local gravity but – we’d struggle to simulate the atmosphere we’d need. And – it’s the other side of Alpha. You’d still need to take him through the base’s gravity field – which would expose him to unacceptable stresses. His heart …”

“…can survive far more gravitational stress than yours or mine,” Koenig interrupted with a twisted grin. “This is _Victor_ we’re talking about. That clockwork heart of his was designed to withstand extreme conditions. They’d have never let him come to Alpha if it wasn’t. If it handled the acceleration at Breakway …”

“Then it should handle Earth norm without skipping a beat.” Helena sighed, nodding her acceptance with reluctance. “Alright, John. Go rescue your Lazarus, and I will do my best to save him. Here …” She dove into her medical bag and emerged with an emergency hypo. “This is a simple sedative. If it _is_ him - then he may fight you. He doesn’t believe you’re real, remember?”

Koenig nodded and stowed the hypo in his belt pouch. “Thank you,” he breathed, his hand lingering briefly on hers before the two of them stepped apart. Maya turned, anxious to return before time ran out, to find the rest of the team standing by their buggy with anxious expressions on their faces.

“How can we help, Commander?” Webster asked. Koneig threw him a grim smile and strode towards the airlock, issuing terse orders and leaving a bustle of activity in his wake. Maya hurried after him, impressed – as usual – by the way that humans responded to crisis situations, and hoping – _desperately_ hoping – that they would arrive in time.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2156 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

It was the furthest he’d ever run – not just in lunar gee, but _ever._ He’d never been the kind of man to contemplate the challenge of the marathon, and he’d tended to focus his regimes of physical fitness on activities that exercised the whole – mind and body in pursuit of excellence – rather than aiming for athletic prowess. Boxing and team games when he’d been young; circuit training in the days spent pursuing the dream of becoming an astronaut; managed workouts in zero gee on the old space station; and. more recently, Kendo, Karate, and a little Tai Kwan Do in between the regular stresses and strains of living on Alpha.

There had been times, in recent years, when he had done nothing _but_ run – but that usually meant he was running for his life, towards or away from danger, whichever the situation required. Short sharp bursts, aimed to prevent escape, to reach refuge, or to defy impossible deadlines. Never like this. Never a long low lope, directed to impart speed over distance while avoiding the risk of a fall or the failure of exhaustion. But he was fit, and he was determined, both assisted and hampered by the low gravity that turned every step into a long leap, but challenged both balance and control. The deadline he was chasing now, a countdown he had no way of measuring, filled him with both fear and desperation. Fear of failure. Fear of _loss_ – and a desperate desire to make this turn out _right._

Victor’s survival had been a miracle enabled by a miracle; the existence of the plant and its hidden kingdom, here beneath the moon. Their finding it – and him – cranked the pointer on the miracle meter up another notch – and … Helena was right, as she so often was. Saving him would also be a miracle; not just a matter of speed and timing, but a challenge of medical wizardry and stubbornness of spirit.

Alpha needed that miracle. 

Hell, _he_ needed that miracle even more. 

He wanted his son to know his friend; to have the benefit of his wisdom, to experience his brilliance and to witness the sense of wonder with which he had always regarded the universe. He wanted his _friend_ to know his son; to be able to share the pride and the humbling love he had experienced the day that Bob Mathias had gently laid Michael in his arms. Fate had given him a chance to make that happen – and now he ran to be certain of it, ran to preserve a life he’d long since thought lost.

A step behind, Maya ran with matching concentration, her long legs keeping pace with ease. He knew that she could easily outdistance him, should she choose to do so: her ability to adopt the shape of almost any creature gave her untold advantages over mere human limits – but her alien origins limited her in other ways, made her hesitant to act or to intervene without a thorough understanding of circumstances or consequences. If he were her, with her particular skills, he wouldn’t have wasted time looking for _help_ – he’d have turned into something big and strong, with a hint of gentleness to it, and snatched Victor up on the spot. He would have to ask her if the thought of doing so had crossed her mind. He suspected that it hadn’t; even after all these years on Alpha, learning to be independent, to step out from her father’s shadow, her instincts were still to seek guidance rather than choosing to act on impulse.

He had no intention of criticising those instincts today. True, her failure to act immediately might have put Victor’s life at risk, but, on the other hand, it was more than likely that seeing someone turn into an alien beast that then forcibly snatched him up and carried him away would have shattered his fragile hold on sanity completely. Koenig knew he would have to manage the approaching encounter with a level of care; the last thing he wanted was for his rescue attempt to turn into a pursuit and capture scenario. He was hoping that long years of friendship and trust would be enough to help him reach and reason with a man whose perspectives on reality had been twisted by years of isolation and chemical dependence. Their first meeting had shaken him, allowing Victor to reinforce, rather than reconsider his understanding of events. This time Koenig would need to take the lead; he had to be in control and he had to be convincing. 

Although, if things got really desperate, the stun gun hanging from his belt might turn out to be the most persuasive weapon in his arsenal of argument.

_Don’t,_ he told himself sternly, leaping over yet another root and frowning as he realised it had actually squirmed as he’d made contact. He’d accepted the weapon that Hancock had handed him almost in reflex. He wasn’t about to shoot his best friend. Not unless he absolutely _had_ to. He shouldn’t even be thinking such a thing …

The race had taken them deep, and he was beginning to notice how everything was moving, twisting and reacting to unseen demands. This close to the centre the vegetation was rustling angrily, and the ever present song was less melody and more meaning filled moan. Koenig was uncomfortably reminded of the long, anxious hours of Helena’s labour as she brought Michael into the world. Birth could be a traumatic process; _this_ one was going to be explosive.

“How far?” he called, pausing for a moment to check his route and assess his surroundings. The waterways were silent, their constant flow to the centre stilled, and the flowers were falling, petals drifting slowly to the ground in a swirl of white and silver. Falling like snow – or like silent tears, glimmering in the phosphorescent light.

“Not far, Commander.” Maya was gasping a little for breath. “We should reach the central cavern shortly. The professor … he was sitting this side of the lake. He shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Koenig acknowledged that with a curt nod, busy grabbing the same opportunity to regain his breath. “Go on ahead,” he ordered. “Mark the spot. I’ll be right behind you.”

She threw him an anxious look, then smiled and nodded. A moment later she took to the air with a rustle of red and gold feathers. He didn’t recognise the species, but the bird was big enough to draw the eye and its plumage more than bright enough to be distinguished amongst the greenery. He waited until she’d gained sufficient height for him to confirm he could track her flight, then plunged on, ignoring the growing burning in his lungs and the protests of his muscles.

The jungle was quivering with pain and effort. He leapt roots that twisted under his feet and ducked branches that thrashed and shivered with undefined pain. His steps led him to the proscenium arch that overlooked the central cavern and then down, into the cavern itself. He charged across the terraces, descending the giant’s staircase with haste, his eyes flicking from the brightly coloured bird that led the way to the groaning, effort filled motion of the column at the cavern’s heart. The mass was nearly two thirds to the ground; the vast vault of the cavern’s ceiling was taut with twisted ropes and the lake bed was a gnarl of tangled roots, risen up to accommodate the descending seedpod. The air was tense, filled with a howl of anticipation.

“Victor!” he called, splashing through the shallow remains of a once deep pond and vaulting from the edge of the terrace beyond. “ _Victor!_ ”

Maya’s bird firm darted and hovered at the edge of the squirming, shivering roots that now filled the curve of the lake and extended to the edge of the lowest terrace. There was some sort of construction there; a lift of tangled wood and branches that formed a supportive cradle – or a throne. A withered, emaciated figure was perched at its heart, watching the display with bright and fascinated eyes.

“No need to shout, John,” Bergman murmured, seemingly unsurprised by his appearance. “Come to say goodbye?”

“No,” Koenig gasped, breathless from his charge and – once again – taken aback by the presence of a man he’d thought dead for many years. So changed – and yet so familiar, the unmistakable vitality of his personality shining through the deprivations he had so obviously endured. “Not today. I’ve come to take you home.”

“Home?” The question was puzzled – but the look that followed it held wry amusement. “Oh, come on, John. Don’t you start. Not now. We’ve been through this argument too may times to count. My mind is made up, and I’m staying with her. Quick or slow, what does it matter? There’s nowhere else to go.”

He turned his attention back to the descending column, and Koenig drew in a deep and careful breath. He wasn’t quite close enough to catch the man if he bolted – and he might well, if he didn’t handle this carefully. While Victor’s mechanical heart would protect him from some of the impact of adrenaline induced panic, unconsidered contact might still precipitate flight. Illusions – _hallucinations_ – that demonstrated their tangibility tended to be frightening things.

Especially when you weren’t expecting them to be real.

An agonised creak from the central mass stepped him up onto a sturdy root and brought him a few feet closer to his goal. Unconsidered, maybe – but they were running out of time.

“There’s Alpha,” he offered softly. _Look at me Victor. Believe me …_

“Alpha?” The thought generated a smile, and another of those wry, almost indulgent glances. “Does it still exist? Do _you?_ You’re probably light years away by now. Founder of a new Earth – and the base just … empty and echoing. And even if not … There’s no way out,” he sighed. His eyes lifted back to the pulsing crystal, his expression haunted and bleak. “No way to use it if there was … and it’s no good looking for one now. Why would you want an old ghost like me, anyway? Long forgotten, I suspect. I’ll just – stay here and wait. I think that would be better. Don’t you?”

The column creaked and groaned again. Koenig took another step forward. He was almost close enough to reach out and touch … “There’s a way,” he said. “We’ve spent years mining under the base. Working outwards in search of minerals and ores. Trace elements. Rare materials. _Ice._ Miles of tunnels, Victor. An entire labyrinth. Leading us here.”

“Here?” Now Bergman looked at him. _Really_ looked at him – eyes narrowing as he registered tiny details that he wouldn’t recognise the way he might have expected to. The slight redesign of the suit’s neck ring, necessitated by the accident that had taken him from them. Minor changes to the panel on the chest unit. And changes to the man inside the suit, hints of grey in his hair and more lines on his face, a difference spawned by six years of experience, by trauma and stress, and stubborn, determined survival.

The years hadn’t been entirely kind to either of them.

“ _John?_ ” The question was querulous, its timbre filled with sudden doubt – and fear.

“Yes. It’s me. _Really_ me.”

A skeletal hand reached out – then drew back before the contact could be made, its owner wide eyed and staring. “You – you didn’t come …. Before …”

Koenig took the chance, and moved even closer, dipping a little so that the two of them were eye to eye, determinedly ignoring the protests of the plant behind him. “I didn’t know,” he breathed, clenching his fingers to prevent his own impulse to reach and catch hold of those emaciated shoulders. Deep, somewhere really deep, there was a piece of him quivering with terror, wrestling with the possibility that – if they did touch – this fragile phantom would simply shatter into dust. _What if Helena is right ..?_

“I thought – we _all_ thought,” he went on firmly, “that we’d lost you. Then … we found the caverns. We found you. After all this time. We found you. And now I’ve come to take you home.”

“To Alpha?” Bergman wasn’t quite ready to believe him – not yet – but there was a glimmer of hope bringing confusion to his eyes. 

“To Alpha.” The plant howled a sudden scream of protest behind him and Koenig winced, knowing that his friend was hesitant, torn between the certainty of the world he knew and the promise he was being offered. “Please, Victor, come with me. There is a way, I _promise._ Helena’s waiting to take care of you. We’re all waiting to take care of you. Come home. Please. Come _home._ ”

A hesitant hand reached, the eyes above it wary and uncertain. Koenig held his breath as cautious fingertips brushed fabric – then the hand convulsed and grabbed, desperate fingers clutching to find the solidity of the arm beneath the suit. Fearful eyes closed in a shudder of utter bewilderment. “ _Baruch Hashem,_ ” Bergman breathed, reverting – for a moment – to the echoes of his youth and the ancestry that had shaped his earliest years.

“Thank him later,” Koeing grinned with relief. The bony fingers digging into his arm were both solid and certain; without the intervening suit that grip would have been painfully intense. “We all will.”

The world moaned with anguished insistence. The roots supporting the two men rippled beneath them, threatening to dislodge Koenig’s precarious balance. Bergman’s eyes flew open and his grip flailed free as he sought to steady his own anchorage. “John?” he questioned with uncertain terror. “It’s not safe. Not here. You have to _go …_ ”

“ _We_ have to go.” The correction was firm, as was the command that followed it. “Maya! Get out of here. We’ll be right behind you!” The brightly coloured bird spun away, her wings beating down to carry her above the threat of dancing branches, leaving one observer quirking a grim smile, and the other staring after her perplexedly.

“Who – what ..?” 

Koenig didn’t have time to explain, even if he knew how; this was neither the time, nor the place to talk about metamorphs and giving sanctuary to alien maidens in distress. “Not now, Victor. I’ll introduce you later. Come on.” He held out his hand; Bergman hesitated for a moment, and then took hold of it, allowing himself to be pulled upright. 

“Are we – going somewhere?” he questioned, his expression furrowing with bemused concern. He half turned to sit back down again. “I thought I’d decided to stay …”

Keonig’s wince was pained; the curse muttered behind it was heartfelt. “Sorry, Victor,” he growled, and grabbed, lifting the startled man up and over his shoulder. “We don’t have time for this.” A long leap brought them both to solid ground, and then he was running again, doing his best to compensate for the unbalanced load. His worryingly _light_ load. The man really was nothing more than skin and bones. The load in question squirmed in protest for a moment or two, then relaxed into their shared motion with a weary sigh. 

“Well now,” he heard Bergman consider sagely. “I suppose I must have changed my mind …”

* * *

Extract from the Secondary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Science Officer: Year 6 – 2156 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

She couldn’t leave them. Orders might be orders, but her years on Alpha had taught her that they were often interpretable – and being someone who could, at a moments notice, transform herself into a creature perfectly capable of surviving a vacuum, she felt that her interpretation of the spirit of the command – ‘save yourself’ – could be sensibly translated as ‘get to a place where you can change.’ Which she did. Once flight had taken her across the highest terrace and into the proscenium cavern beyond, she abandoned her wings and returned to her normal, humanoid form, letting the materials and construction of her space suit reassert themselves with well practiced expertise.

There’d been a time when she hadn’t dared to change with _anything_ next to her skin – but her father had taught her well, not to mention making her practice hour after hour. She had long since learned to impose her will on most materials, especially having learnt that – once she stopped imposing – most of the time they reverted to their natural state entirely of their own accord. She couldn’t change living things, of course, but almost everything else was child’s play. Provided it fitted within her personal morphic field of course. 

Psychon eyes weren’t quite as sharp as the ones she’d been borrowing, but she didn’t need a raptor’s vision to spot the runner in the desperate race that was now heading towards her. Koenig’s suit was a bright splash of colour that was easy to catch as it disturbed the restless shiver of greenery, dancing in and out of the white petals that were still drifting down like snow. He was running almost straight towards her, only occasionally jagging left or right in order to avoid the quiver of a root, or to surmount the tumbled edge of a terrace. Each step rose and fell in an arch of desperation, a long series of bounds and leaps that covered ground with determined speed despite the limited gravity. Even so, it looked slow from where Maya was standing, a race against time that would run out the moment the jerky, tortured descent of the seedpod reached the point of no return. 

And that was _very_ close. The roots from the upper level were stretched out and round into a tensioned, twisted spiral. The lower group were compressing down into a tight and tangled ball. One or the other would reach its limit soon. Sooner, it seemed, than Koenig would reach the edge of the cave and the suspect safety of the caverns beyond.

If he’d dropped his burden, he’d have made better time – although that, of course, was the very last thing he was going to do. She was surprised that the old man wasn’t struggling more; she was certain that she would be, snatched up like that and carried away through the flail of vegetation. Koenig, at least, had the suit to protect his skin, but there was precious little he could do to avoid the whip and strike of vines and branches as he blundered through them. 

The whole of the cavern was moaning in pain, echoing and re-echoing with sound. Woven over it, and through it, were the slow creaking protests of the seedpod’s descent. Deep inside that cacophony, things began to crack and break; evidence that the process was reaching its endpoint. Each sharpened _snap_ leant wings to Koenig’s frantic leaps. They sent Maya moving forward too, anxiety setting her heart pounding in her chest as she desperately tried to think of a way to help him. 

There was no time for consideration or carefulness; just the desperate charge that took the shortest route. He was close enough to her now for her to make out the determined grimace that twisted his face; if he failed, it would not be from lack of trying.

Abruptly, silence fell.

Everything, except the running man, stopped moving. Maya saw Koenig’s eyes go wide in horrified realisation – and then she was shifting, changing into something with clawed feet to anchor her and long, grasping arms that could reach out and seize with lightning speed. He leapt, she grabbed – and she was hurriedly lifting him and his burden up and over the lip of the cliff when something, far below, exploded in a scream of light and sound.

It took barely seconds for the pod to reverse its journey, thrust upwards with powerful force as the tensioned roots sprang back into their normal configuration. They were seconds in which Maya was busy wrapping two fragile, human forms in the protection of the armoured plates from beneath which each of her six tentacle like arms had sprung, and scuttling backwards as fast as her currently cumbersome form could carry her. A furious wind tore across her back spikes; a wind strong enough to have ripped the low gee lightened mass of a human body back off the ledge and tossed it straight down into the maelstrom of air, debris and churning roots that the release of the pod had left behind. Fortunately, the beast she’d chosen had been designed to lurk and hunt in far worse atmospheric conditions; the brief battering of dislodged leaves and plant matter were nothing compared to the scouring impact of the sandstorms that dominated the surface of the world on which it lived.

Maya was decidedly relieved she’d been able to recall this particular specimen – although she rather hoped that the commander never worked out that she’d actually rescued him by stuffing him – and his companion – into her open mouth. Koenig’s suit tasted of plastic and moondust and a hint of two of battered vegetation. The old man, on the other hand, came wrapped in years of perfume and fruit juice; his skin was sweet and oddly fragrant considering the conditions he’d been living in.

She resisted the temptation to slurp, and turned instead, opening up circular jaws to let both of her captives tumble out of them. The brief surge of wind had died away, and an odd, muffled silence had fallen. It was broken by two things: Koenig’s totally justifiable exclamation of ‘ _what the hell was **that?**_ ’ – and a soft, hysterical giggling from the old man. He was lying where he’d fallen: flat on his back in the carpet of turf and debris that blanketed the cavern’s floor and staring up at the quivering of green blue tentacles that danced over his head.

“The thing of the idols, the green, sticky spawn of the stars, had awaked to claim his own,” he muttered, and giggled again, clearly delighted by the idea. “And thus we come to dwell in the mountains of madness …”

“Victor.” Koenig, much to Maya’s relief, abandoned his bemusement at her choice of changeling, and moved to kneel at his friend side. This gave her the opportunity to shift back to her normal form and cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. Her scuttling had brought them into the end of the tunnel leading to the proscenium cave, and the way through was blocked, obscured by a thick layer of leaves mixed with a glutinous oozing of dark sap, leaking from the roots lining the walls. It wasn’t that effective a seal – there were bits of it tumbling away again even as she looked – but it had clearly been enough to preserve most of the atmospheric integrity. It probably needed vacuum behind it to create a permanent closure – which that suggested that the central cavern had been successfully sealed, since this one, having performed its job, was already starting to crumble away. 

The silence was unsettling. She had become used to the ever present murmur of the plant filling the tunnels and caves with an undercurrent of sound, and its absence felt _wrong_. Wrong too, in the way that human voices disturbed the quiet, intrusions into a world of sudden and utter stillness. Nothing else was moving; leaves hung limp and heavy, and while petals still dropped, they did so with a slow, drifting descent, velvet on velvet in the silent light.

“You all right?” Koenig was asking, his voice hushed, even though it didn’t need to be. The old man had stopped giggling. He was staring up at the two of them instead, blinking and frowning in obvious confusion.

“John,” he registered, then: “ _John?_ ”

The smile that answered him wasn’t one Maya had seen the Commander use much; he tended to reserve that kind of warm delight for time spent with his son – or for those days when things that had seemed utterly black and bleak turned out to be survivable after all. She wondered which emotion had lifted it to Koenig’s lips this time – and then realised that, for once perhaps, both were overwhelming him, handing him a moment of both relief and joy. The thought, and the sight, lifted a similar curl of warmth to her own lips. They were safe. They had _survived_.

“Yeah,” Koenig breathed, reaching down to help his friend sit up. Bergman caught the proffered arm – caught and explored it with hesitant, uncertain fingers. “In the flesh – well, in the suit, but … yes. Really me. _Really,_ ” he added reassuringly, as puzzled eyes continued to stare. 

“I … don’t understand.” The admission was querulous, filled with hesitation and doubt. The look that went with it was utterly bemused. The old man didn’t resist as Koenig pulled him up, his hands still investigating, still confirming the solidity of the form beneath them. “Am I … _dead?_ ” 

The Commander’s smile widened ever further. “No,” he denied, half laugh, half something else entirely. “Not any more …” 

“Oh. Well, that’s … reassuring,” Bergman said, not looking at all reassured. “I think.” He paused, glancing round in bewilderment. “No,” he decided, shaking his head in wary denial. He was clearly distraught, half turning to seek non-existant reassurances – or perhaps to escape. “It’s all _wrong_ …I - I can’t hear her … I don’t – I …” His desperation brought him back to stare at the man beside him, his expression crumpling into utter distress. “ _John?_ ”

“I’m here.” Koenig gathered him up into a hug, cradling fragile shoulders with determined gentleness as the old man fought for self control. Bergman pushed and flailed for a moment – and then he grabbed and hugged back, giving into a storm of emotion that clearly overwhelmed what little rational thought he had left. A sob, deep and heart wrenching, shook through him – and then another, and _another_ , sounds that tore Maya’s heart and forced her to turn away for a moment or two.

She didn’t know this man – didn’t understand the depths of affection which Koenig held for him … or the reason why Helena was so anxious to deny the barest possibility of his survival … but she knew grief, and she knew exile, and she could empathise - both with the ache of losing someone close and the anguish of being lost. 

Not to mention the overwhelming incredulity of being _found …_

“Maya!” Koenig’s hiss held a note of sharpness, although it was one born of anxiety, not anger. She turned back to find him jerking his head and flicking his eyes downwards, a hasty distraction from the figure now huddled into his embrace. She frowned for a moment – then understood, acknowledging his request with a nod of equally hasty agreement. A short step took her to his side, and a careful dip allowed her to remove the hidden hypodermic from his belt pouch.

“Are you sure, Commander?” The old man was trembling, his face buried in Koenig’s shoulder and his body still racked with slow, distressing sobs. Koenig nodded, his earlier smile subsumed by anxious concern. _Make it quick,_ he mouthed, moving a little to give her better access.

She did. Not that it seemed to matter much; her patient’s skin shivered as she pressed the hypo home, but the man himself barely noticed. He went on quivering for a while, his distress slowly being overwhelmed by the conflict of drugs in his bloodstream. Eventually – with the faintest of sighs – his eyes closed and his head rolled back, his entire body going limp in Koenig’s arms.

“Thank you,” Koenig breathed climbing to his feet and lifting the now unconscious man into as comfortable a carrying position as he could manage in the bulky suit. “For that – and … _that,_ ” he added, the jerk of his chin managing to convey a reference to her earlier rescue. “Whatever the hell that was.”

“Childybian sand snatcher,” she said, trying not to smile at his disconcerted expression. If she’d thought he’d accept it, she’d have offered to change again – but something told her that he’d never agree to give up his current load to anyone, no matter how much more carrying capacity they had. “A little like a cross between your antlion, and a sea anemone. But a lot bigger, of course.”

“Of course.” This smile was a more familiar one – an acknowledgement of comradeship coupled with gratitude for a job well done. “Well,” he decided, “looks like everything here has settled again. I wonder what that looked like, back on Alpha?”

“It’ll be on record,” she realised. “Tony will want to know …” She tailed off, catching the way his smile deepened knowingly, and he laughed.

“I’ll let you explain,” he grinned, starting to walk back up the tunnel, pacing his steps so as not to jar his burden more than necessary. “Tell him I have a - delivery for Helena, that take precedence. That,” he added, turning briefly to throw her a warning look, “stays with us for a little longer. But the plant, and the seeding … that’ll give people something to focus on for a while.”

She nodded, already considering how to phrase her report – and which details to add, for Tony’s benefit. She would like – with Koenig’s permission – to involve him in her next expedition into the caves. Not just for his company: while she could confirm that there would be no further activity from the plant and check the integrity of the atmospheric sealing, she knew that he would want to assure himself that this new development did not pose a threat to the base. But before she did return, she wanted to review the exterior records, to see whether all the plant’s seeds had been successfully ejected beyond the pull of Lunar gravity. The Alphan’s had witnessed too much death in their years of exile. _This_ had been a birth. A life affirming event. She thought that would go down well, once she was able to explain.

She also hoped that Helena would be able to work her usual magic and that – sometime soon – they would be able to reveal the full truth behind the event. That it had not been just a birth, but the beginning of a _resurrection …_


	7. Part Six: Like a pilgrim's withered wreath of flowers plucked in a far-off land.

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazarus. Year 6 – 2156 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Helena Russell was pacing. It was foolish, and it did nothing but expend energy, but it gave her something to do. She had known, of course, that it would take time for her new patient to arrive because the trip to, and return from, the central cavern was a good distance even under … well, normal conditions. But it had been over two hours since the surface of the moon had erupted and the resultant scattering of crystal seeds had lit the sky above Alpha with an unexpected display of light and beauty. She’d warned Command Centre that something was about to happen – but the outcome of that something had been far more spectacular than anyone had expected. Rumour and speculation were running around the base like wildfire: they ranged from the absurd – that had Koenig finding, and testing, some ancient alien weapons system buried beneath the moon - to the far more worrying possibility that the massive eruption of air and debris had signalled the destruction of the entire cave system, its interior stripped of atmosphere and content alike.

She was firmly refuting both of those extremes – the only alien presence they had encountered in the caves was that of the plant itself, and she was more than confident that the amount of air that they’d seen ejected represented only a minor portion of the entire system’s capacity. But she couldn’t help but worry; she knew by the timing of events that Koenig would have been right at the heart of the thing when it blew, and neither he nor Maya had been heard from since. She’d checked in with Hancock an hour before, and he’d informed her that Webster and Shewell had entered the caves to start a preliminary search, and that they’d get back to her as soon as there was news to share. 

She was expecting a call.

Even so, she jumped when her commlock bleeped for her attention.

“Dr Russell,” she stated, aiming for calm and mostly succeeding. The tiny screen flickered into life, and she nearly dropped the device in relief. “ _John._ ” There went all her professional credulity – and her reputation for maintaining detachment, even in a crisis. “Are you all right? We hadn’t heard … I was beginning to wonder …”

“Sorry about that,” he drawled, not sounding sorry at all. “We had a little problem with communication – something to do with the electrical interference generated by the dispersion process? We had to walk almost the entire distance before our commlocks started working again. It was pretty spectacular down there – but … Maya was right about the self-sealing mechanisms. Not that much escaped. And it’s all gone –very quiet since. Oh – “ he added, almost as if it were an after thought. “We did get there in time to collect that – specimen - we discussed. Are you set up to receive it?”

She stared at him over the electronic link, trying to fathom his mind. He was smiling, but his eyes were tired, and his face held signs of strain. It seemed his trip had been successful. But at what cost?

“The iso-lab is ready and I have a team standing by,” she said, her relief at his survival replaced by a resurgence of anxiety. “I’ll meet you at the travel tube.”

“Ten minutes,” he told her. “We’re on our way. Koenig out.”

She lowered the commlock back to her belt, and took a second or two to compose herself. She was prepared – but she didn’t know what she was preparing for. An impossible truth? Or the revelation of a devastating lie? 

A deep breath settled her for the moment, and she strode out of her office to start giving orders to her chosen team: two nurses and one medical orderly, picked for their level-headedness and discretion. She hadn’t explained what they might be doing yet – partly because she still wasn’t entirely sure that they would have a patient to care for, and partly because, without the experience of the plant and richness of the environment it had created for itself, the idea that there might be a patient would simply sound absurd. 

“Get down to the iso-lab,” Helena ordered briskly. “and be ready to receive …” Receive _what_ , exactly? “… your instructions when I get there.” She suppressed a momentary wince at the awkwardness of her save and strode away, ignoring the whispered conversation that rose behind her. They’d find out what they were in for soon enough. If there was anything to find, of course …

She’d deliberately avoided involvement from any of the other doctors – most of whom were far too busy with pre and postnatal care to be spared for an uncertain project that she couldn’t clearly describe – but she was pondering the wisdom of that as she headed down Med-Centre’s corridors. By the time she arrived at the travel tube, she was pondering the wisdom of even contemplating a project at all – but it was far too late for her to change her mind.

A flicker of lights heralded the arrival of the travel tube, and then Koenig was striding out of it, shrugging into his uniform jacket as if he’d only just finished getting changed. Helena thought she might have glimpsed the crumple of an abandoned suit tossed onto the seats behind him, but she’d barely had time to blink before he’d caught her arm and was sweeping her away, letting the other occupants of the car follow behind them. She glanced back, seeing Hancock and Webster step out, both still in _their_ suits and busy steering an equipment cart between them. On top of the cart lay one of the large metal containers usually used to transport the heavy duty laser drills.

Her heart skipped a startled beat. It was just a simple, plain and innocuous container – but for a moment it had looked far too much like a coffin for comfort.

“ … so it looks as if Maya’s theory about the self-sealing mechanisms was right. Most of the air and water have been contained, and the system seems to have re-stabilised.” Koenig’ voice filtered into her awareness and she forced herself to pay attention. “There’s still a few lingering problems,” he continued brightly, “- dealing with the trace chemicals, mapping the extent of the complex, restoring the water flows – but even with that? Alpha’s been handed a big back yard to play in. Complete with the biggest compost heap you’ll ever see.”

“It’ll mean a lot of work,” she said warily. She was unsure whether he was deliberately distracting her, or simply creating a smokescreen for the benefit of casual passers-by. 

“Absolutely.” His grin held the pleasure of a small boy let loose in a toy shop. “Lots to do, but – lots to achieve in doing it. Besides – I already have someone in mind to co-ordinate the project. I’m sure he’ll come up with some bright ideas … in here?”

They had reached the entrance to the iso-lab – a self-contained, sub-surface unit built at the far end of the Med-centre complex, containing three suites of isolation chambers packed with high tech environmental and medical monitoring equipment. Before Breakaway it had been used in the training of the meta-probe and other long distance astronauts, helping them get accustomed to a range of environmental conditions – gravity shifts, atmospheric pressures, alternate gas mixtures, and so on. Since then it had only been occasionally used – and that mostly in emergencies, acting as quarantine quarters, serving as an extra ICU unit, or providing a setting for specialist treatments, such as managing patients with extensive burn or radiation damage. 

“We’re set up in the central suite,” Helena said, thumbing her commlock to open the doors and reaching to halt his inevitable commanding stride through them. “Step gently, John. We’ve already programmed the environment, and the reception area straddles the gravity gradient; it’s still full gee here, but it’ll be one sixth by the time you get to the arch on the other side.”

“Clever,” he noted, stepping inside and looking around with approval. As far as she knew, he hadn’t set foot in this particular area of the base since before Breakaway. Back then he’d probably been far too concerned about the meta-probe pilots to take any notice of the layout - or the architecture. “Does that mean the suites on either side are still at Earth norm?”

“Yes.” She led the way across the vestibule, feeling the way her weight shifted and melted away as she moved away from the entrance and into the designated zones. The unit had been high profile once, welcoming politicians, academic chancellors and members of funding committees with enough political standing to finagle the trip to the moon; it was laid out with glossy intentions, mimicking the stylish attention lavished on Main Mission – or at least the area behind it that had once served as the Commander’s office. “It’s designed so that each of the areas can be set up completely independently – gravity, atmosphere, pressure … this is an airlock,” she pointed out as they passed the interlocking of double doors that led to the central suite. “Then there’s the duty office – all the monitors feed into there – supply and medical prep room opposite … the day room’s behind there, and this – “ she triggered the next door to open as they approached, “is the primary isolation unit. Full ICU.” She stepped to one side, her eyes inevitably darting towards the anonymous silver cylinder as the two men lifted it from the trolley and carried it past her. “If we need it …”

“Let’s hope not,” Koneig murmured, ushering her into the room. “Thanks, Jo. You too, Hancock. You’d better both get back to the caverns before Andi decides to start staking claims without you.”

“She’d better not.” Webster’s growl was amused rather than anxious. He still hesitated though, looking down at the container he’d just lowered to the floor. Hancock was just as obviously hovering

“You’ll let us know, Commander? As soon as there’s news?”

“I will.” The slight jerk of Koenig’s head was enough to send both men scurrying, leaving him, her and her team staring at the box they’d left behind. Helena’s mouth was dry. Even now she couldn’t be sure …

Koenig dropped to one knee, reaching to unhook the clasps with a determined hand. It took two men to manhandle its usual contents, even in low gee – but it was easy enough to open, and it only took a moment or two before he’d flicked the last clasp and was lifting the lid .

Scent swirled into the sterile room - the exotic scent of orchids and fresh greenery – and the assembled nurses gasped in surprise and delight. Under the lid lay a riot of flowers, hints of blue and red and purple and orange emerging from the tide of velvet white that spilled out across the floor. Helena drew in a similar breath, although hers held a note of apprehension rather than enchantment: at first sight the cylinder held nothing _but_ flowers. Had she been right? Had Koenig and the others been deceived? Had the phantom they’d thought to rescue truly been a phantom, a construct which –having served its purpose – had simply dissolved back into to the materials from which he’d been made?

“ _Easy, Victor,_ ” she heard Koenig mutter to himself as he reached deep into the riot of blooms … and then she was gasping again, reacting as he lifted the sleeper from his hiding place. Flowers and leaves scattered in all directions, drifting around them both like snow as he stood to place her patient gently on the waiting bed. “There we go …” He stepped back, and turned towards her, sharing a look that held triumph, and hope, and a whole slew of other emotions that would be hard to name. 

“Behold Lazarus,” he announced – probably with a hint of smugness, although Helena didn’t notice it. She was too busy staring. Staring at a ragged wreck of a man, so changed, and yet so familiar. She’d run any number of scenarios through her head in preparation, but nothing had prepared her for _this_ – for the truth of finding herself face to face with the man she’d mourned and missed, and given up for dead …

There was no mistaking the familiar profile, even though years of exile had withered it into something little more than skin and bones. She stepped closer, and found herself looking at a virtual stranger, the bearded face a ragged, hollow mockery of her long lost friend. 

Somewhere to her left her nurses were similarly staring, while the Argentinean born orderly was crossing himself, brokenly muttering an appeal to the Mother of God, over and over again. For a long moment his whispered voice was the only sound in the room.

“I think,” Helena managed eventually, putting out her hand to catch the young man’s arm, “that’s – quite enough, Julio.” She understood his reaction, more than empathising with his incredulity. The shock of the moment had tipped her heart into overdrive, and she was struggling to catch her breath. But once past that initial impact, her professional composure was starting to kick in with a vengeance. She might be looking at a miracle, but the man at the heart of it was clearly in desperate need of help and attention – and he wasn’t going to get it if all her medical team did was stand and stare.

She took a deep breath, and with it the last step, moving from startled friend into concerned professional with the determined ease of long practice. Koenig moved aside to give her the access she needed, nodding with relieved approval as she began the careful examination of her new patient.

The drug she’d provided held him in a deep sleep – so deep that she found herself hesitating a little as she reached to make her initial checks. But her fingers found warmth, and softly yielding living flesh - and she paused for one last acknowledgement of the miracle, allowing an involuntary smile to tug at her lips. “Breathing’s a little ragged,” she noted. “Pulse … _damn_ …” She’d forgotten – even if only for a moment – that she shouldn’t expect to find the staccato beat of a human heart hammering through her patient’s veins. Victor’s pulse was smoother, a slow, surging rhythm that rose and fell with constant timing: the tick of his artificial heart maintaining his life with unhurried efficiency.

“Problem?” Koenig asked and she grimaced, half in self annoyance, and half in mild hysteria.

“No – and _yes_ ,” she acknowledged, sparing him the barest of glances before returning to her task. “His heart is fine – and probably will be for centuries yet. The rest of him? Not so much.” She turned her attention to her team, issuing orders with confidence. “I need full bloods, tissue and fluid analysis, stat. Let’s start him on saline and sugars, and – keep him asleep for the time being, I think. Julio – start connecting up and calibrating the monitors, link up the neuro-inducer, and then pull me up his records from the archives.” Her team swung into action, and she paused to offer Koenig as encouraging a smile as she could find. “Give us a moment, John, and I’ll let you know.”

He stepped back and she returned to work, conscious of the way his eyes stayed fixed on her and her patient. He believed her capable of miracles, and his faith was both a blessing and a burden: she’d do her best, but – given the circumstances, best might not be enough. The man under her hands was impossibly fragile, reduced through years of hardship and deprivation to a shadow of the resilient, energetic soul that had once helped to design and construct Alpha – and which had been a stalwart part of their survival in those early days. He was half starved, crippled, and saturated with unknown compounds that had twisted and warped his body chemistry. Rebalancing that would be difficult enough were he strong and healthy – in his weakened state almost everything they would need to do would be a threat to his survival. But to stand back and do nothing would be even worse. 

She watched the figures scroll across the monitors, carefully assessing the greatest risks and equally carefully prescribing a series of agents and counter agents that might stave off some of the inevitable storm. They would have to find ways to give him strength, to reinforce his natural defences and to purge the worst of the contaminants without damaging vital organs. Liver, kidneys, bone marrow, blood – everything was infused with the essences of the plant. 

But he was alive. Victor Bergman, lying in her Med-Centre, under her care, returned to them heart and soul. Unquestionably and unmistakably alive. 

She just had to hope she was good enough – that _everyone_ was good enough – to keep him that way.

* * *

Extract from the secondary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Chief Security Officer, Anthony Verdeschi: Year 6 – 2157 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

The day dawned like any other on Alpha – full of questions and uncertainties. Tony picked up breakfast on his way to Command Centre, and drowned it in yet another cup of _we call it coffee, but we’re kidding ourselves_ that he’d managed to snag from the dispenser before settling himself at his station. He checked through his morning reports, noted the update on the progress of the next stage of the laser defence ring, and reviewed the regular patrol logs from the night before. There’d only been two notable incidents – one a minor domestic that had turned out to be mostly a misunderstanding, and the other requiring the security team to escort a less than sober hydroponics engineer out of his greenhouses and back to his quarters in the early hours of the morning. They’d confiscated his still, too, which Versdechi made a note to inspect before they recycled its components back to their usual uses – apparently the man had managed a halfway decent gin, and would probably become decidedly popular once he’d submitted the proper requests and got permission to re-build the thing with authorised materials.

Nobody minded anyone getting drunk on their own time, but pilfering allocated resources to construct experimental, and illicit leisure equipment was both inconsiderate and more than a little dangerous. They kept the inventory for a reason, and sometimes that reason saved lives.

“You should have that man demoted,” Paula Abanga noted archly from over his shoulder, and Tony barely avoided his instinctive start of surprise.

“Morning,” he said instead, summoning up a diplomatic smile. “We having an unexpected meeting?”

“Yes,” she responded sourly. “The Commander’s asked the allocation committee to reconvene this morning. As if we didn’t have anything else to do.”

She had something of a tight look around her eyes – one that suggested she might have been partying a little later than had been good for her the night before. Tony rapidly trotted through a mental review of the events scheduled for the previous evening, and allowed himself a quiet smile. “We’re all busy,” he noted sagely. “So - how did the rehearsal go?” 

“Oh, wonderfully.” Her face lit up with genuine pleasure. “The quartet managed three entire pieces without a mistake, and now Coral’s recovered from that throat infection, we even had counterpoints in the choral piece. I know early baroque music isn’t to everyone’s taste, but it goes down well with the faithful. I still wish Lee would let us use the old man’s violin, but … we make do with what we have.”

“It’s a good thing,” Tony said, and meant it. Abanga’s little music group may have been her way of putting her mark on Alpha’s social life, but it had blossomed into something a good many people treasured. Even he was looking forward to their contributions to the next year end concert. With luck – and a great deal of practice - they might even manage to stay in tune this time.

“It would be better with the Strad,” she half muttered, then let the moment, and the thought go as Koneig swept into the room, most of the remaining section heads on his heels. Abanga straightened up to offer him her usual calculated acknowledgement, but Verdeschi’s own automatic smile of greeting dropped into a slightly wary frown.  
While the Commander had managed to shepherd in most of Alpha’s great and good, both Alan Carter and Helana Russell were entirely conspicuous by their absence.

“Good morning everyone,” Koenig called, getting everyone’s attention. “I don’t want to keep you long, but I have an announcement to share that most of you probably think is long overdue.”

A speculative buzz whispered round the room, then fell silent again as the Commander stepped up to a console and flicked opened a communication channel. “This is Command Centre to Eagle One,” he called. “How’s it looking out there, Alan?”

Alan Carter’s face – with a _huge_ grin plastered all over it – appeared on the central monitor. “Bonza, Commander. It looks as tight as drum – and everything else concurs. Not a hint of leakage. Little bit of debris lying around though. We probably ought to clean that up – just in case any passing alien thinks we might be hiding something up here.”

On screen, the shot had flicked over to reveal the tumble of terrain that lay between the crater wall that encircled the base and the rising mountains beyond. It was a bleak, craggy vista, filled with shattered craters, deep gulleys, and jagged rocks. In the middle of the screen the searchlight from the Eagle revealed that a new crater had been defined by a scattering of decidedly un-luna like debris. Angled bits of wood jutted up from among the tumbled stone, while shadows cast by the man-made light sent the serrated edges of vast leaves into sharp relief. They were looking, Verdeschi realised, at the buried entrance to the plant’s domain – the one from which its seedpod had erupted so spectacularly the day before.

“Conceal it?” Koenig’s question held a note of surprise. The idea had clearly not crossed his mind. Verdeschi quirked a small grin and stepped up to the plate.

“Damn good idea, if you ask me, Commander.” Koenig didn’t ask, but his eyes did – along with a slightly wary frown and briefly lifted eyebrow. Verdeschi knew that look. It demanded an explanation, and it had to be a good one. Fortunately, he had just that. “You said it yourself,” he pointed out. “This – plant’s – domain is now our new back yard. And I don’t know about you, but I like to keep uninvited visitors off my property. Which means putting a big padlock on the back gate. If we don’t, we’ll be leaving Alpha wide open for anyone who wants to sneak in and get at us from underneath. But,” he went on, “we start putting obvious and heavy duty security installations up there? We might as well put up a neon sign. ‘This way in.’ Or maybe ‘Keep out,’ but the effect’ll be the same. Alan’s right. We clean it up, we secure it, we put in an Eagle lift, or whatever we think we need – and then we cover it up. The way we cover up the laser cannons. Visual camouflage. Heat dispersal, so thermo sensors see only cold moon rock – and maybe some magnetic cores, so it all looks pretty hard and dense.

“Well secured, well hidden back door,” he concluded, sharing the thought with a grin. “One _we_ can sneak out of, should we ever need too.”

“Sounds good to me, Commander,” Carter said over the comm-link. “We could even put in a couple of emergency hangers – keep a spare Eagle or two safely away from the base.”

People were nodding their agreement. Koenig was looking thoughtful. “Lets – not get too far ahead of ourselves,” he said. “This will all need designing and planning – and then building … but, the idea’s sound enough. In principle. Alan,” he ordered, “Lets get a survey team out there to see what might be feasible – and allocate some Eagles to clear the worst of that debris.”

“Aye, aye, Commander!” Carter’s response was warmly enthusiastic, and Verdeschi didn’t blame him. The worst danger they faced on Alpha was not the threat of alien attack, or the menace of cosmic phenomena. It was the creeping onset of tedium, of boredom and the absence of challenge. This – if it turned out to be the project he was beginning to suspect – was going to keep life interesting for a while, maybe even – if it turned out to be the project he was beginning to suspect – not just months, but maybe even years to come.

Depending on when – maybe even _if_ – they ever instigated Project Exodus, of course …

Koenig ordered Carter back to base, cancelled the com-link and turned his attention to his resource committee. The quietly considered frown on his face was neither unusual, not unexpected; he clearly had a lot on his mind. 

“You are, of course, all familiar with the event that took place yesterday,” he began, sweeping the gathering with thoughtful assessment. There were nods and acknowledgements from round the room – Verdeschi’s among them – and he heaved a quiet sigh. Verdeschi’s shoulders tensed a little. Whatever the Commander was about to say was not going to make him popular.

“Well,” the man continued, “Contrary to current rumour and gossip, I am not about to lead the entire compliment of Alpha on a joyful charge into the Garden of Eden. It’s not a garden, it’s certainly not Eden, and it’s likely to be a long time before what’s down there resembles anything close to being either. What we have is a vast and mostly unexplored complex, which promises much, but has – so far - revealed very little. I want to quash some of the wild expectations I’ve been hearing this morning; there will be no free for all, no mass exodus into the depths, and no-one – I repeat _no-one_ – wandering around down there without clear purpose and authorisation. Yes, I know,” he went on, holding up his hand to silence the threatened babble of questions, “you are all eager – everyone is eager – to see the caverns for yourselves. But until we’ve mapped out every nook and cranny, can be confident that there’s no threat of a sudden atmospheric breech, and Dr Russell can be certain that the air down there will be safe for much longer periods than we’ve been risking so far – we cannot guarantee anyone’s safety. Access to the caverns will continue to be limited – mostly to the team currently engaged in their exploration, but I am prepared to authorise some supervised expeditions for others to collect specimens, gather materials, and recover some of the rare minerals that Alpha desperately needs. No more than ten people at any one time, and that will include the survey teams, and the engineers who need to investigate – and hopefully prevent – any risk of atmospheric leakage or pressure breech.”

The threat of babble became a low muttering of general discontent. The looks on a great many faces round the table was not happy. Verdeschi was wearing a frown of his own, although that had more to do with the reaction of the gathering than the words which had caused it.

“You are going to continue to restrict access?” Paula Abanga almost growled, clearly fighting down indignant fury. “Are you seriously going to give the people of Alpha a glimpse of paradise and then deny them their right to visit it?” 

“Yes,” Koenig responded, matter-of-factly. “I am.”

She half opened her mouth to refute the idea, then saw the look in his eyes and snapped it shut, her lips tightening in frustrated anger. Verdeschi made a mental note to try and avoid her for the next few days; however good Koenig’s reasons might be, she’d be spitting acid for a while – she _hated_ having her plans and ambitions thwarted.

And, no doubt, she’d have formulated all sorts of plans and ambitions concerning the caverns as soon as she’d seen that first footage.

“Firstly, as I have said,” the Commander said, in that polite but determined tone that said this was not a matter for discussion, “these caves are _not_ paradise, no matter what they may look like on the tapes, and secondly, they are becoming even less like it as we speak. The plant is dying; it may, technically, already be dead. The explosive decompression that launched its seeds into space was a devastating one. The atmospheric loss may have been limited, but the disturbance it created ripped most of what was in the central cavern into shreds. That forest of exotic greenery you’ve all been drooling over? It’s about to become a vast compost heap – and I suspect that the vegetation in the outer caves will follow all too soon. I am intending to recruit some volunteers to shift debris and clear some of the waterways, but it will be time consuming, back breaking work, not leisurely play. In time, that detritus may become a fertile soil which we will be able to cultivate – but there will be a huge amount of work to do before any use of the caverns becomes a feasible prospect. It’s unlikely that the plant’s self-sealing mechanisms will remain viable, and we will need to replace it with airlocks and pressure seals, and all the other safety systems and services that keep Alpha air tight and it’s atmosphere sustainable.  
I’m afraid that it will be some time before these caves become the haven that everyone seems to think they are.”

The tightness of Abanga’s lips relaxed a little, but her eyes narrowed with calculated consideration. Verdeschi wasn’t sure that was an improvement. Angry, she could be countered and her tendency towards manipulation contained – but once past the anger, she’d be looking for opportunities, spinning options and laying schemes in order to regain the advantage, and by doing so, get her own way. 

“Commander?” Sarah-Lee Courtney had been busy jotting notes on her pad. “Do you want me to catalogue materials as they go in and come out of the caverns? You said there’d be minerals – they’ll need to be added to the inventory. And if engineers need to requisition from stock …”

Koenig’s smile was spontaneous and warm, clear evidence that he’d been anticipating a hostile reaction from his team. The sudden practicality of the question had obviously surprised him.

“Good point,” he acknowledged. “Very good point, in fact. Yes – we will need to track and record everything if we can. Can you set up a project folder for it? It’s early days, but I don’t think we want to lose this in the miscellaneous file.”

That raised a few more smiles around the room, Courtney’s among them. “Absolutely not, Commander. But – Project what, exactly? And is there someone I can tag as Project co-ordinator? Other than yourself, of course” she added, trying not to sound apologetic about it.

Koenig very nearly grinned – a reaction Verdeschi was not expecting, and which immediately piqued his interest – but very quickly schooled his face into more neutral lines. “I have someone in mind,” he said. “If he’s available. But – a project name? Anyone any suggestions?” 

A low murmur went round the room, glances being exchanged and heads being shaken, as they often are when people find themselves on the spot without ideas to hand. Abanga frowned. So did Henry Lassiter, although – as head of Hydroponics – he was probably thinking more about the implications of the Project and the impact on his team than trying to come up with a snappy title off the top of his head.

“How about – Project Haven?” Versdeschi suggested thoughtfully. Koenig’s earlier words were still on his mind – along with the reasons for why the some of the Alphan’s might be disappointed at finding themselves still barred from paradise.

“The Haven we thought it might be?” Sarah-Lee considered, tilting her head and thinking about it for a moment.

“And will be,” Koenig capped, nodding thanks in his Security Chief’s direction. “Any objections?”

Nobody voiced any, so he nodded again, with satisfied decision. “Project Haven it is then. Thank you for that, Mr Verdeschi. Miss Courtney – until I appoint my Project co-ordinator – you’d better liaise with Webster and his team. It was their discovery, and they’ll be involved in most of the initial work, at least. I will accept one volunteer from each section to assist with the immediate clean-up work – get them to report to Medical for a base-line check, and we’ll get a rota set up. Thank you, everyone. Let’s get back to work.”

The dismissal was curt; intended, Verdeschi realised, to minimise the temptation to linger and speculate on things Koenig had no intention of discussing further. Nevertheless, he lingered, waiting until the rest of the duty command crew had resumed their places at their stations and everyone else had vanished back into the bowels of Alpha. Koenig – who had been watching his people leave with an unreadable expression on his face – turned to consider the way he was not quite hovering, and found him a wry smile.

“Tony?” he queried, and Verdeschi relaxed a little, reassured that –whatever it was that the man _hadn’t_ said – the non-specific concerns they hadn’t quite discussed the day before were no longer causing him the same level of concern.

“About those yard patrols,” he suggested quietly. “Time to start discussing them yet?”

The question earned him a long, thoughtful look, and then another of those quietly wry smiles. “Not yet,” Koenig said. “But I could do with a gate guard or two if you could spare them.”

“Flaming swords to bar the way to Paradise?”

“It’s not –“ the Commander started to retort, then processed the joke, shook his head, and sighed instead. “Standard stunners, will do, _Mr_ Verdeschi. It really isn’t that safe down there, and while I know people want to see – _need_ to see,” he corrected softly, “it’s not worth the risk. They’ll get their chance. You too,” he added with a hint of warmth. “Hopefully without Maya needing that really interesting shape she took to rescue me when the seeds were released.”

“She does have her moments,” Verdeschi agreed, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “I’d wish you’d warned me about that – the seeds, I mean. I thought we were under attack for a moment or two.”

“I’m not surprised. But there was no time for a warning – we didn’t realise what was happening at first, and then … I barely made it out of the central chamber before the fireworks went up. Listen – can you work with Alan on concealing that entrance? It is a weak spot, and we really don’t want any unwanted visitors exploiting it.”  
Verdeschi nodded. “No problem, Commander. Give me something to do now that the defence ring is in place. We’ll lock it down real tight.” He paused for a moment, thinking about the need to extend Alpha’s defence ring so that the surface entrance to the caverns would be protected without drawing too much attention to it. “Perhaps I should have suggested Project Sanctuary,” he said, realising that the caves offered the potential to be just that – somewhere where the Alphan’s could seek refuge, should Alpha come under attack in the future.

“No,” Koenig said thoughtfully. “No, I think Haven is just right. We need to build a place that provides respite, not just refuge …”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2157 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

John Koenig was still pondering the difference between respite and refuge as he left Command Centre and headed towards his next appointment of the day. His considerations took him back to other times; to hard decisions and bitter moments of loss. He still missed the confidence and sense of certainty that standing in Main Mission had always given him; Command Centre was more secure, and a much safer place to be at times of attack, but it wasn’t the same. Hadn’t been the same since that dark day when seven men had gone out on a routine surface walk, and only six had come back. 

Others had been lost since – good men and women, taken by fate or destiny, left behind by choice or by inevitable physics, or simply lost to accident or unavoidable circumstance – but that particular absence had nagged at him for years. It had left him bereft of a supporting anchor, and robbed him, not just of a valued colleague, but of a close and much missed friend. Command could be a lonely place to stand, even at the best of times. While, he had Helena, and now Michael, to remind him he was human and entitled to a life beyond the dictates of Alpha’s destiny, Victor had been the one man on the base who’d known him – who’d worked with him – long before the burden of command had fallen over his shoulders. 

Finding him – _meeting_ him in the depths of Luna’s hidden world - had been an unexpected, and disconcerting gift. He still wasn’t entirely sure that it was all it seemed. He could only hope that the man they found was more than just an echo, a remnant of the man they’d lost – and that, given time and care, could be that man again. 

He was so caught up in those memories that turning the final corner and discovering Maxymiew pacing up and down the main corridor totally disconcerted him. The man had been a prominent part of the events he’d been recalling and, for a moment, it was hard to separate past memory from the present reality. Then comprehension dawned, and he found a sympathetic smile for the anxious man and his equally anxious pacing; he’d been there, wrestling with equal worry and concern while the woman he loved nurtured the child of his heart.

Angela Defais, Maxymiew’s chosen partner had been admitted to Med-Centre only that morning, with concerns about possible complications with her pregnancy. The child wasn’t due for a while yet, but Helena had wanted her to be checked over, just in case. 

“How are you doing, Max?” he asked, briefly distracted from his own concerns by the man’s haunted face. Maxymiew managed an absent half smile.

“I’m fine, Commander,” he said, staring at the closed door and probably through it to the ward beyond. “It’s Angie – you know?”

“I know. “ Koenig tried to sound both confident and reassuring. “She’s in good hands, Max. She’ll be fine.”

Maxymiew frowned a little. He was a big man, a typically broad built Slav with a square cut face that might deceive you into thinking him slow. Such an assumption would be wrong: he was of a kind that considered things carefully, taking time to come to decisions. The trait made him reliable and consistent in his work, while his steady natured attention to detail had unquestionably contributed to the safety of the surface teams, and almost undoubtedly saved a number of lives over the years. He’d taken Bergman’s loss very personally – it had been part of his job to protect him, to check the equipment and make sure everything was working the way it was meant to be – and he’d clearly felt responsible, even though no-one could have predicted, or prevented, the accident before it had happened.

Looking at the man’s furrowed brow, Koenig found himself wondering what it might be like to cross him, to drive him into passion and anger. Ivanovitch Maxymiew, he realised, had depths it probably wouldn’t be wise to bring to the surface.

“What kind of life will this be?” he was demanding, his frown creasing his features into deeper furrows, “for the children? No sky above them, no open space to run, no trees to climb? We are little more than cogs in a machine. This life is stealing our souls, Commander. Angie sickens because she has no air to breath. Our child – he should be born where there is light and life, not here, not in a fragile box on a cold dark world.” He heaved a weary sigh. “I wish I had listened to the Professor.”

“What?” Keonig was startled by the sudden reference. No-one on Alpha mentioned Bergman much these days. Surely Maxymiew had no idea …

“I remember,” the man continued, lost in his thoughts. “Before breakaway. I would pick up the lunar soil in my gloved hands and speak of it growing grain, tall and golden. _Max,_ the Professor would say to me, _you are nothing but a peasant at heart. Go back to your steppes and grow old before it is too late._ He understood. He understood many things. I did not listen to him.”

He looked towards his company, his dark eyes wide with some inner pain. “Now he is gone. And I no longer believe in miracles. I used to think he would be here forever. Sometimes I turn a corner, or look up in my work and half expect to see him there. Five years – and still he haunts us. But you would know that, wouldn’t you Commander? You were his friend.”

“Yes,” Koenig agreed warily. “But what makes you think of him now?”

“Because, “Max shrugged. “Because Angie … he would understand.” 

Koenig briefly clapped his hand to the man’s shoulder, offering silent sympathy. “She’ll be fine,” he reiterated, moved by the obvious depth of feeling in the declaration. “I’ve been there, Max. I know. And we’ll make a life for our children. One – one Victor will approve of.”

The door opened with a soft hiss, and Helena was there, smiling at them both. She beckoned to Maxymiew, and his eyes lit up with relief and hope.

“You can go in now, Max. Angie’s doing fine. She can even go back to work if she feels up to it. But I’ll want her back here nearer to her time. We’ll all be a lot happier if we can keep an eye on things.”

Maxymiew went with an eager step, leaving Dr Russell to lead Koenig down the corridor towards the isolation wards and the patient she held concealed there.

“He’s been asking for you,” she said softly as they moved out of earshot of any passers-by. “He’s out of his depth and I think you’re the only thing he’s certain is real, even if he can’t quite rationalise it. We need to strengthen that, draw on it and re-establish his grasp on reality. If we can convince him he’s safely back on Alpha, then we have a chance to really bring him home. If …” She left the statement unfinished, implying a thousand things she knew were better left unsaid. 

_One step at a time._

They’d been living like that for years. Surviving on it. Dealing with one crisis so as to make room for the next. 

They passed through the pair of half-glassed doors that fronted the isolation bays, and they slid silently shut behind them, cutting them off from the rest of Alpha. Keonig suddenly experienced a moment of pure panic, partly inspired by his conversation with Maxymiew. What if he had found nothing more than a ghost? What if all of this was nothing more than a dream?

The moment passed unnoticed by his companion, and was banished by the reality than confronted him as he walked into the quiet ward at the end of the passage. He might have found a ghost, perhaps – but one that was still a very real, and living man all the same.

With the straggle of his beard cut and trimmed into neat lines, the tattered rags replaced by the clean blue of standard issue sleepware, and the sparse hair combed back neatly over his distinctive skull, the sleeper in front of him was unmistakable. Even if he was little more than a pale echo of the vital man that had been his friend. He’d thought he was prepared for it – had thought he’d come to terms with the impossibility of it all. But it was still a shock. It was not until now that the full impact of it came home to him. Not just the fact of Bergman’s survival, but to have him alive and on Alpha, as though he’d never been away.

Helena caught his arm as he moved towards the open door of the glass walled unit, and he turned to her questioningly.

“He’s a sick man, John. He’ll tire quickly. Don’t give him too much too soon.”

She was beautiful, the mother of his son, and he loved her. He clasped her shoulder affectionately, and dipped to brush her forehead with his lips. Here, in the quiet of Med-Centre’s heart he could stop being the Commander for just a little while; be nothing more than the man, her lover, and friend to an old man who needed him.

“Victor?” he called softly, moving into the other room to stand by the bed. The sleeper stirred. Woke. Opened confused and uncertain eyes that for a long moment focused on nothing at all. Then he caught sight of his visitor and an instant of pure delight passed into his expression.

“John!” The moment died. The smile lapsed a little. “John?”

Koenig found his a smile of his own, offering his hand to prove his reality.

“One and the same,” he said, keeping his voice light. “You weren’t expecting anyone else, were you?”

Tentative fingers curled around the proffered hand, then tightened convulsively when they met resistance. The old man swallowed, and closed his eyes – only to find that, when he reopened them, nothing had changed.

“I – I don’t understand.” His voice sounded dry and cracked. “I don’t – I don’t think I want to understand.” He started to laugh, a quiet ripple of sound that was somehow both amusement and tears. He caught both back with a breath, the confusion in his eyes suddenly replaced by a flicker of fear. “ _Where?_ ” he demanded, his hand clenching down on the fingers within his own. Koenig reached his free hand to a tense shoulder, trying to hide his concern behind a reassuring smile.

“You’re home, Victor. On Alpha. And you’re safe here. We’re going to take of you. I promise.”

The man’s panic was only momentary. Reassured, he relaxed into a puzzled frown.  
“I can’t hear her,” he said, the statement wary, as though it made no sense, even to him. “But she’s never quiet. Never.”

Koenig nodded slowly, recalling the murmured voice of the plant and its constant harmonies. “I expect we can do something about that,” he offered softly. “I’ll speak to Helena before I go.”

“Helena?” The hint of a hopeful smile flowered on Bergman’s face. “Is she here? Is she – “

“I’m here.” Dr Russell moved to stand at the other side of the bed, reaching to wrap his free hand with both of her own. “Hello, Victor. It’s good to see you again.” 

He stared at her, puzzledly. “I thought – “ he began, “no – I dreamt – you are here, aren’t you. Really here?”

“Yes,” she affirmed gently, giving Koenig the barest of thankful nods across the space between them. “And I’m going to be here any time you need me.”

He smiled back at her trustingly, but his eyes were haunted.

“Go back to sleep now,” she advised. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk later. Right now you need to rest.”

“Sleep?” he asked of Koenig, and smiled at the answering nod. “To sleep, perchance to dream…” He started at the thought, his grip tightening on Koenig’s hand a second time, a frail grip with unexpected strength behind it. “This isn’t – am I dreaming now?”

The answer was a firm shake of his Commander’s head. “No. Not at all. This is real. Like I said, you’re _home._ Now – you get some rest, let me get back to work. And I’ll be back, I promise.”

Bergman stared at him for a long moment, his thumb testing the warmth and texture of his friend’s hand. Then he smiled and let go, closing his eyes and surrendering to sleep, trustingly, like a child.

Helena reached to catch Koenig’s arm and drew him away.

* * *

“He doesn’t seem too bad to me. A little confused, perhaps, but that’s hardly surprising.”

Koenig had perched himself on the corner of the desk in the sparse office, and was thoughtfully nursing a cup of freshly poured coffee. Behind him, a silent monitor pictured the scene he had just left – the dimly lit iso-ward and it’s quietly sleeping occupant. Helena’s eyes were focused on it, looking past him and over his shoulder as she poured herself a steaming cup from the dispenser.

“Don’t let appearances deceive you, John,” she said. “This is only the beginning. His metabolism is still working through the residue of that – cocktail it’s been dependant on for the past five years. As soon as that’s gone … well, we’ll have to see.”

“You don’t sound very confident.”

She sat in the nearby chair, placing her cup carefully on the desk in front of her, and looked up, her blond hair spilling back from her anxious face. “To be frank about it, John – I’m not. There are too many ifs involved. If we can sustain him through withdrawal. If we can rebalance his system and stabilise it. If doing so clears him mind …” She shook her head, an expression of doubt rather than denial. “I don’t know. I might hope for the last, but – I have to be sure about the first before it’s even a consideration. He’s lucky in some ways.”

“Lucky?” Koenig was disconcerted by the suggestion. “He’s got more luck than the rest of us on Alpha put together. By all the odds he shouldn’t have survived that fall – let alone be alive right now.”

Her nod was a distracted acknowledgement of the obvious; her thoughts were clearly on more immediate details. “I know,” she said. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I was thinking … the properties of these chemicals – this concoction he’s been exposed to for so long. I think they’ve protected him in a way that … John, would you or I have stayed sane? Five years in complete isolation? With no hope of rescue or release? I’m not sure I would. Not sure I wouldn’t have tried to escape – somehow.”

Koenig shivered at the thought. Time would have had no meaning in the caverns. What had it been like? Finding yourself trapped in an alien world, Lost. Forever alone …

“You think he might have ..?”

Helena shook her head, dismissing the idea with a wry smile. “No,” she answered. “He’s Victor. He’ll have been completely and utterly fascinated by the whole experience. Frustrated too – no-one to talk to about his discoveries.”

“He talked to his hallucinations,” Koenig recalled. “And – apparently - they talked back.”

“Internal voices given form and feature. That’s what I was talking about. The plant … freed his mind from despair. Cushioned it from the crush of loneliness and gave his subconscious anchors – conscious projections. Protected him.”

She reached for her cup, blowing on the hot liquid before taking an abstracted sip of the stimulant it concealed. It really _wasn’t_ coffee – they’d run out of the real thing years ago, and the one lonely coffee bush the hydroponicists had tried growing had yet to produce any beans. But Helena and her team had concocted something to replace it, and it did the job almost as well as the beverage if replaced. Almost.

There was still something not quite right about the taste …

“He’s confused,” she continued, offering professional observations along with the personal ones. “Easily distracted, and, I suspect, has difficulty concentrating on anything for any length of time. He also questions his own perceptions – wanting to distinguish between reality and waking dreams. But – however off kilter his line of thought, he’s clearly clung to internal logic and held on to his sense of self. His mind may be skittering and slipping, jumping from idea to idea, and throwing up what we may think to be non-sequiters, but … seriously? I’ll say it again - he’s _Victor._ He was always three jumps ahead of everyone else. He’d have five or six things on his mind, and be perfectly capable of listening to a complicated symphony while holding a conversation about gravitational mechanics and doodling abstract equations – and their solutions – without missing a single semi-quaver or misplacing a decimal point.

“He may sound irrational,” she concluded thoughtfully, ignoring the involuntary and reminiscent smile that was busy breaking Koenig’s heart, “but he’s not – strictly speaking – insane. Which makes my job a little easier. I think.”

The smile softened into affectionate sympathy – affection for both the the man they discussed, and for his doctor, who had long since proved herself capable of working miracles.

“Easier – but not easy.” A long time ago, Koenig might have tried to encourage her with meaningless platitudes, might have thought to praise her skill, or tried to remind her of some of the difficult cases she had succeeded with – but life on Alpha had cured him of that sort of fantasy. He knew better. And she knew him too well. “Do what you can for him, Helena. I can’t ask any more than that. At least now he has a chance. If we hadn’t found him in time …”

He didn’t need to finish that sentence. She nodded her understanding, and he gifted her with his confidence, the way he always did.

“So,” he said, standing up and turning to study the line of monitors and the data that paraded across them. The image of the fragile figure on the bed was clear enough, but the other screens were harder to interpret. “What’s the set-up here, exactly? I don’t think I’ve been in this part of the base since before Breakaway.”

“Probably not.” Helena got up to join him, sliding her arm comfortably through his, seeking closer contact as she sometimes did when they found time alone together. “And you did have other things on your mind at the time.” She waved at the monitors with her free hand. “You had the general orientation when you visited yesterday. Each bay is managed independently of both main Med-centre, and each other – mostly to enable fine control of any gravitational and environmental differences. Everything can be routed back to the central systems if necessary, but it’s not automatic. The local monitoring system oversees every room in its associated bay. The ward,” she said, pointing at the active monitor, “the duty room …” The flick of a switch brought up an image of the two of them, staring back at themselves. “And the secondary day-ward – “ Another flick brought a third screen to life. “ – which can double as a recovery room, serve as a sleep station for a standby nurse or doctor, or act as a lockdown lab when we’re dealing with contaminated materials, or contagious infections. There’s also a small storage space for blankets, prescribed drugs, and any other bits and pieces we might need. But the camera in there is linked to the unit’s overall monitoring systems, rather than this one.”

That made sense. While he’d spotted a prominent comm-post out in the lobby, there’d been a secondary communication’s screen behind the reception desk – admin was obviously meant to keep an eye on stores, so that doctors could focus on their patients.

“A hospital within a hospital,” he realised, and Helena smiled at the note of praise in his voice.

“It’s a good set-up,” she agreed. “And it made a lot of sense – when we had the staff and the demand for the space. Of course, since we don’t actually have a team of long range astronauts in training anymore, it’s mostly redundant these days. There are usually enough ward beds for the day to day cases, and critical patients are generally managed in Intensive Care – although these bays do have some IC facilities, should we ever need them. When we moved the main Med-Centre down to this level, we did think about stripping them down so we could utilise the space and allocate the equipment elsewhere, but – with the variable environment controls already set up, and the opportunity they gave to isolate particularly sensitive or seriously infectious patients - we decided they were worth maintaining.”

“Earning their reprieve today,” Koenig muttered, watching the activity on the third screen. The two nurses Helena had assigned to her patient’s care were working with some of the laboratory equipment in the day-ward. Around them, scattered on polished surfaces and placed within makeshift vases, were some of the flowers that had helped to conceal Bergman’s return to Alpha. There were others, similarly arranged in the quiet ward where the man now slept. They looked odd among the clutter of medical equipment, an unexpected addition to Med-Centre’s normally clinical environs. Plants on Alpha were precious things, nurtured in the hydroponics labs or carefully managed in the solariums and other community areas. Yet, somehow, it was right, a reminder of earlier, Earthbound days, when flowers were the accepted gift to the sick. Even if these particular blooms would never have grown on Earth.

Or had they?


	8. Part Seven: How long is forever?  Sometimes, just one second.

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2157 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Koenig was on his way back to Command Centre when Sarah-Lee Courtney caught up with him, interrupting his mood of thoughtful introspection with a distracting smile.

“May I speak to you for a moment, Commander?”

As he wasn’t in any particular hurry, he slowed his steps a little and returned the smile with one of his own. “Of course you can, Miss Courtney. What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” she hasted to reassure him, falling into step beside him. She was almost as tall as he was, and had no difficulty matching his stride. “Just a request.”

“Which is?” The wary note was automatic: being the Commander, he’d long ago made it a rule that he _never_ said yes to a request until he knew exactly what was being asked of him.

“It’s – well, it’s about the plant. Or - bits of it, I suppose. I often get asked – by all sorts of people – if they can have just a little of something for personal use. Clays, and paint, or fabric and thread, even gold or silver on occasions. I try and help out where I can, but, it’s not easy. There’s never a lot to spare. And I was wondering …”

“Personal uses?” he interrupted, stopping mid-stride to turn and stare at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I know that you’re involved with contributions to the leisure allocations, and I also know how much that helps keeping Alpha sane, but -what’s that got to do with the plant?”

“Everything,” she said. “Commander – you said it was basically going to become a huge compost heap. Which may be wonderful news for the gardeners, but not for everyone else. I’d just like the chance to salvage some bits and pieces before we lose them. Wood for carving and carpentry. Fibrous materials for spinning thread and making fabrics. Maybe even real paper. Flowers and leaves to preserve – to press, to dry, to encase … Think of the toys we could make for the children, the pictures and the displays that would brighten everyone’s lives …”

She tailed off, biting at her lower lip with sudden embarrassment. Koenig suppressed the temptation to smile at her expression; she had clearly just realised how passionately she’d been expounding her point. Which had to mean she was really invested in the idea, since – usually – she was the calmest person in the room.

“Must be your day for good ideas,” he told her, unable to resist the slightest of teases. “None of that had occurred to me – or to any of the others on the Haven team, either. Have a word with Webster – give him some idea of the type of materials you’re talking about, and he can instruct the clearance teams to put things like that to one side. Tell him I’ve okayed it – but remind him that no-one is to disturb the main root systems. Maya thinks they play a major part in the stability of the caverns’ structure, and I don’t want that disrupted.

"If anyone can find use for any of the peripheral material, they’ll be welcome to it. Just make sure it’s all catalogued and tracked. In case … well, just in case. We know so little about what we’ve found down there.”

“Thank you Commander. You’ve just made a lot of people very happy.”

“I hope so,” he said. “And – Lee?” 

She’d half turned to go, and turned back with a questioning smile. “Sir?”

“If you know someone interested in turning flowers into jewelry, let me know. I might have a commission for them.”

* * *

Command Centre was its usual bustle of quiet activity and Koenig half hesitated in the doorway, wondering whether he should just slip away to his office and let his team get on with their jobs. Before he had time to decide, Tony Versdeschi had spotted him and was beckoning him over, a big grin on his face.

“Something you want to tell me, Tony?”

“Show you, Commander.” Alpha’s security chief jabbed a finger at the console in front of him. A scroll of data was writing its way up the screen, Computer reeling off facts and figures as fast as the long distance scanners could transmit them. “That solar system we’ve had under observation for a while? We are going to pass it - but it’ll be close enough for a flying visit. Or two. And look at what’s just swung into sight. The data started coming in about ten minutes ago.”

Koenig bent to study the tumbling stream of information. Planetary mass, orbital location … indications of open water, weather systems, landmasses … He wasn’t about to put money in the betting pool, but that looked _good._

“Do these figures check?” he asked generally, and got back a lot of happy smiles and nods.

“We’re tracking it on long range telemetary,” Sandra Benes told him. “There’s some interference from solar activity, but not enough to mask spectral analysis or heat signatures. The visuals are just starting to come in. It has oceans. And ice caps.”

Koenig nodded slowly. They’d been here before, and he knew better than to let the temptation of hope overcome cautions and common sense. “It looks a little too good to be true,” he muttered, half to himself. “What do you think, Tony?”

Verdeschi had been busy trying to read the next few lines of data, and he looked up with a half hopeful grin. “I don’t know, John. Computer is telling us there’s a system out there with a planet that could have been designed for us. There’s no sign of habitation, no structured signals, and no ‘keep off’ signs, either. If it is as good as it looks, it’s all ours. But we’ll have to wait until we’re a little closer to be sure.”  
“How long until we’re in Eagle range?”

“Two days. Commander.” Sandra was running the figures through her console. A note of excitement backed her usual, steady tones. It had been several months since they’d encountered anything as promising as this, and despite their long years of travel, the prospect of journey’s end was something that still hope in all their hearts. 

“Right,” Koenig said, assuming his mantle of command with the confidence of long practice. “Sandra – keep an eye on that system and get as much data as you can. Run the updates through computer as soon as you get them – and make sure that includes any other planetary bodies that might influence or affect that planet. Tony – as soon as we’re in range, I want you to take a team down for a closer look. You in one, Alan for the other. I want the whole works – surface survey, atmosphere analysis, bio analysis, weather patterns, the lot. Start picking your personal now. Everything needs to be ready to go the minute we hit the window. If this is it …” he paused at the thought, feeling the weight of that potential decision settle around him with inevitability. “I want as much information as I can get, as soon as I can get it. That includes the current lunar trajectory,” he added, glancing at Yasko, who nodded and bent over her console to start collecting what he needed.

He looked up at the spread of stars on the main screen. The system they were approaching was a rapidly increasing glob of light, straight ahead of them.

“Sandra,” he said softly, stepping over to join her. “When you get a moment? Put a call through to Webster and his team. Tell them to keep working, but be ready to step out at a moment’s notice. If this works out – then Project Haven may need to be ended before it really begins.”

* * *

Maya was waiting for him in his office when he returned there, his thoughts still whirling around the system ahead and the promise it held. He greeted her with a smile, but her face was worried and he changed his look to one of concern as he slipped behind his desk.

“You wanted to talk to me?” he hazarded, and she nodded, a little distractedly. 

“Sit down,” he told her, gesturing towards the relevant chair. “I’m not busy. Tell me the problem.”

“Well,” she began, hesitantly. “There is no – problem, as such. I’ve brought the data report on the plant that you wanted. It’s preliminary, but the implications are fascinating. The indications seem to be that it’s not a randomly evolved life-form, but something … engineered.”

“Engineered?” he echoed, leaning forward in surprise. She nodded, her expression pensive.

“I have no other explanation for what we are seeing. The sheer complexity of the DNA sequences … it has incredible adaptability. And the way it created such a complex environment – most life forms, even highly evolved ones, adapt to their environment. They don’t adapt it to _them._ I suspect the plant was – designed - to terraform hostile or toxic planets. To transform uninhabitable worlds into … well, habitable ones. Which I think might explain why it took so long to trigger it’s reproductive cycle, even though, logically, it should have done so the moment that the Moon left Solar orbit. A truly independent and self-sufficient organism would have responded to the loss of its primary energy source almost immediately.

“The plant waited.”

“Waited for what?” Koenig asked warily.

She sighed. “For company.”

“ _Com…_ ” He bit back his startled reaction and stared at her instead, letting the suggestion take root while its implications crystalised into disconcerting possibilities. “You really think ..?”

She sighed a second time, her elegant features folding into unhappy lines. “It was _aware,_ Commander. Responsive. It had defence mechanisms – “

“The toxins.”

“Yes – well, no, not those exactly. If had wanted to harm us, it could have produced something far more deadly and much more fast acting than it did. But everything I’ve tested – the fruit, the leaves, the water – despite the taints they carry, they’re all compatible with the human metabolism. I don’t know what the caverns were like before the Professor stumbled into them but, given the speed with which the plant was able to change colours and produce new blooms, I’m almost certain that - probably within a few days of his arrival - everything within his reach had been remade to support and nurture him.”

“ _Almost_ certain?” It was a fantastic idea, and a somewhat worrying one, but they’d seen so many fantastic things since they’d left Earth behind that he was prepared to give it serious consideration. Before Breakaway, Maya would have been considered an impossible creature – but she was sitting right in front of him, and had proved her worth many, many times.

“Almost,” she admitted reluctantly. “This _is_ speculation, Commander, but – while I did consider that perhaps any alien intrusion would have been enough to trigger the change, I realised very quickly that – had that been the case – then the mere introduction of the micro-organisms that mankind inevitably carries with them would have been enough.

“It didn’t need to feed him. If all it needed was a bio-intrusion, a means to trigger change and decay … then …”

“His corpse would have served just as well.” Koenig sat back, his mind whirling with the unanswerable questions. 

She winced. “Yes, Commander. The agents of the decay we saw – and are seeing – in the caverns? Are purely terrestrial. Before our arrival – before the Professor’s arrival – the only living organism in the caves was the plant itself.”

“Engineered to live until colonists – or someone else - arrived to supplant it,” he considered slowly. “Clever.”

“Very,” she agreed. “Although it may not have been colonists, exactly. Merely a lifeform that had evolved into sufficient complexity to be identified _as_ a lifeform, and not just a background micro-organism. On a planet,” she went on to explain, at his querying look, “the plant’s own complex DNA would likely have acted as … seed materials, assisting primitive life to develop into more complex organisms. Helping them to adapt to the world it was adapting. Here – on the Moon, where it burrowed deep – there were no outside influences, no meteorites bringing new organic materials, no extremes of solar radiation, no volcanic activity creating the conditions that spawn early life-forms. It had been alone for a very long time,” she concluded quietly. “Probably much, much longer than it had ever been designed to be.”

He let that thought sink in, trying to unravel the implications and trying not to imagine the yawning eons of time that had passed while the plant had, quietly and methodically, hollowed out the hidden world beneath his feet. Preparing them for habitation, creating a living Eden for children that had never come …

_Unless …_

“Maya,” he asked, not entirely sure he wanted an answer. “Do you think – perhaps - the _Earth_ was seeded? Was there another plant, once, growing on our world?”

“It’s possible,” she said. “The plant propagates through the ejection of a number of space borne seeds. They must be able to survive the descent through an atmosphere, so if … this plant was one of several seeds that entered your Solar System …”

“Spawning life on Earth …” he muttered, recalling the possibility that had occurred to him down in the caverns. “Lingering in forgotten corners, perhaps - until the next part of their life-cycle was triggered by the dinosaurs, or maybe even early man. But the plant here – needing to wait until … until we had evolved enough to leave our home world and set foot on lunar soil ..? _Whoa,_ ” he breathed, leaning back in his chair. “That’s … actually, I don’t know _what_ that is, but it might explain a lot.”

“Why so many of the alien races we have met have humanoid form?” She smiled, a little sadly. “Yes, I had thought of that. Whoever – _whatever_ \- created the plant, may be the distant ancestor of all similar lifeforms in this entire Universe. Who are not the only pattern of life we have encountered,” she pointed out, “but do seem to be far more prevalent than mere chance would suggest. Myself included,” she added after a beat. “I am not human, Commander. But – if my analysis is right – then we may well have had a common ancestor. Or at least,” she corrected wryly, knowing that was simplifying the situation, “have sprung from a similar seed.”

Koenig nodded abstractedly, accepting the correction while he went on wrestling with implications that seemed almost too momentous to contemplate. In what was probably mental self-defence, his mind skittered onto a more manageable – if just as thought-provoking – track. He found himself remembering Gwent, the sapient machine, and its desperate need for companionship. Its need for _Companion_ – its creator and lifelong associate – and how, unable to replace that connection, it had chosen to end its own existence rather than continue alone.

What would it be like – to be alone for eons, needing company and the affirmation of your purpose in life - waiting for forever to fufill that purpose, to be able to complete one final task? The plant _could_ have triggered its final cycle the moment that Victor had stumbled into its domain, but would it really have taken five years to complete? Especially as the only sunlight it would have been able to snatch in all that time would have been in fleeting glimpses as the Moon swung its way past dwarf stars, red giants, and other stellar bodies. Why had it taken so long to spawn? It could be that the creation of those precious seedpods, packed with the instructions to shape and conquer hostile worlds, would require a span of time that, in many ways would be little more than a blink in the overall age of their parent – but something told him that that wasn’t the answer. 

The plant had reshaped itself to protect and nurture the fragile life-form that had fallen into its domain. Had it waited as long as it could to give others of his kind a chance to find, and rescue their lost friend?

Or had it just been savouring the experience of company, the presence of another, after eons alone?

In some ways, those questions were just as disquieting as the much bigger questions that Maya had raised and which his mind was busy refusing to contemplate. Not least because, not matter how much they might speculate, there was no way of knowing the true answers. The plant was beyond their questioning now, its purpose fulfilled and its body slowing succumbing to the onslaught of decay that human intrusion had introduced into its domain. And he doubted that – given his current confusion and the way the plant’s toxins had both affected and protected his mind – Victor would ever be able to offer any further enlightenment.

Mya was still looking worried, so he pushed philosophical matters to the back of his mind and favoured her with his full attention.

“That’s all very fascinating,” he said, “if a little academic now. But there’s something else on your mind, isn’t there?”

She hesitated for a moment, then asked, with an attempt at casualness that didn’t fool him for a second: “What – what did Doctor Russell say – about the Professor? Did we save him, or …”

“It’s too early to say.” He paused, his eyes narrowing as he suddenly realised what might lay behind her anxiety. “Is that the problem? That you don’t know where you’ll stand if he recovers?”

She coloured a little, and glanced away, clearly unsettled by the accusation. And perhaps, he thought, a little embarrassed that he’d seen through her dissemblance so easily. 

“Well,” she began, “he – I …”

“Forget it,” Koenig snapped, making it an order, not a request. “You may have helped to fill the gap he left, but didn’t replace him, and he’d not going to replace you, now. You’re a valuable part of my Command team, Maya, and nothing’s going to change that.”

“But – “she was still hesitant. “Wasn’t he – your scientific advisor? Before …”

“Yes, he was. And will be again, I hope. But you and he will complement each other, not be rivals for the same position. Besides – I suspect he’s going to be too busy to be looking to do your job as well as his own. If this new system doesn’t work out … well, if it does, we’ll need every brilliant mind we’ve got to help us survive after Operation Exodus. And if not, we’ve a whole new world to explore and exploit right here on Luna. And I think he’ll be the best person to help us do just that. Somebody has to oversee Project Haven – and that’s going to be a full time job. That, and all the other crazy projects he’s probably going to want to pursue. Victor was always good at juggling half a dozen things at once. But I value your skill and your knowledge, and I have no intention of losing your input – or your unique insight, either. I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about where he’s concerned.”  
He paused to smile at her, buoyed by the realisation that – should Victor recover from his ordeal – then Alpha was likely to do much more than simply survive in the years to come.

With both of them on the team, it was going to _thrive._

Maya returned the smile, reassured by his confident tone.

“Thank you, Commander,” she said. “I know he is your friend. And I know Helena will do her best to help him recover.”

* * *

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazarus. Year 6 – 2158 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Helena Russell made a particular point of personally taking breakfast to the patient in the isolation bays that morning. She felt it was important to reaffirm the connection that had made the day before, so – although, strictly speaking, Nurse Graham was on duty watch, she was the one that took the carefully prepared breakfast tray from Julio where he was working in the day ward and carried it through into the primary ward where their patient was still sleeping.

It didn’t look like much – a mug of broth, a glass of soymilk, and a few protein and carb cakes – but she knew better than to overtax a starving man’s digestion with too much too soon. Besides which, there were a whole series of vitamin and diet supplements added to the seemingly innocuous broth, carefully calculated to help build up his strength and restore his metabolic balance.

“Good morning, Victor,” she announced cheerily as she set the tray down on the table by the bed. Bergman, curled onto one side and looking somewhat better rested than he had the night before, opened one cautious eyes and looked at her. 

“Hungry?” she asked. 

He opened his other eye, rolled his head back onto the pillow and gave the matter some serious thought.

“Should I be?”

“I should think so,” she answered. “I’ve brought you breakfast.”

He lifted his hand to thoughtfully stroke at the tangle of his beard, his expression still doubtful – and his stomach rumbled, loudly enough for both of them to hear it. He look briefly aggrieved, then relaxed into a grin, his eyes dancing with momentary laughter.

“I - may be hungry,” he concluded, and she laughed.

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Hold on a minute.”

Helena adjusted the angle of the bed, tilting it up so that he could sit and eat more comfortably, and he obligingly lifted his shoulders and then settled against them again as she plumped the pillow to give him some support. Even that small effort cost him; she made no comment as he carefully drew in a slow breath, and took a moment to regain his equilibrium. The ward’s gravity generator had been deliberately lowered to point five – less than Alpha’s Earth norm, but still higher than the one sixth gee he’d become used to.

She turned to pick up the mug of broth instead, gently handing it to him and taking the opportunity to cup his fragile hands within her own. His fingers were cold – evidence of sluggish circulation – but there was no tremor in his grip, and he supported the mug with confidence. “Take it easy,” she advised. It’ll do you more good if you drink it slowly. Don’t waste your strength.”

He took a small sip – and then another, closing his eyes to savour the warmth and the taste. It probably wasn’t that remarkable, but would be a distinct contrast to his previous diet – hopefully providing both a trigger for memory, and yet another reassurance as to the reality of his situation.

“We had a good mushroom harvest this year,” she told him, moving round the bed to inspect the monitoring instruments behind him. “And Aaron’s been working wonders with his synthetic taste additives. That’s supposed to be chicken, by the way.”

“Really?” He looked into the mug, and frowned. “I suppose it might be. I really can’t remember …” She glanced back at him with concern, but his mind had already skittered on to something else. “I used to like chocolate,” he said. “I think. Is there chocolate?”

“Only the way we have coffee,” she laughed. “But I think there might be some tea, if you feel like some later?” 

“Tea would be good.” He didn’t sound entirely sure about it. “Nice to have something warm. Cold fruit and cold salad. Cold me, too …”

“Are you cold, Victor?” Helena glanced at the relevant monitor, then moved back round the bed to gently press the back of her hand against his neck. His body temperature was only a couple of points lower than it should be, but his skin felt clammy, and she was well aware that his lack of muscle mass could make it harder for him to generate his own heat.

“Cold?” His eyes had gone distant. She reached to catch the empty mug before it fell from abstracted fingers. “Yes,” he breathed after a moment. “A little cold. Cold like the grave; like the void.” He turned his head to stare at his reflection in the glass partition. His hand went back to his beard, combing through the neat curls that Julio had left when he’d trimmed the knots away. His fingers were clearly expecting there to be more, and they closed and tugged on thin air. “Nothing left of me but a ghost,” he murmured. “And a cold wind, blowing where my heart used to be …”

Helena shivered, although the ward was warm. Coming from Bergman’s drawn and angled features the words held an eerie note, an echo of experiences she knew she could barely guess at, let alone comprehend. 

“But I rather like this,” he decided, smoothing the beard and tilting his head to see the effect on his reflection. “I think it suits me. What do you think?”

The transition from mournful spirit to upbeat and cheerful innocence was disconcerting, but she found him a supportive smile, knowing that it was merely a symptom of his current condition. “I like it,” she said. “But I think it’ll suit you better with a bit more weight on your bones. You think you can manage a few of these?”

She handed him the plate with the cakes on it, and slipped out to the outer half of the ward to find him an extra blanket. On the way back she stopped by one of the consoles and triggered the program she’d loaded into it the previous evening. Soft notes spilled out into the room, filling the air with quiet melody.

“Debussy,” Bergman recognised, his eyes lifting towards the music before closing with studied delight. There was a piece of cake, half lifted in his hand, and he used it to conduct the slow drift of the music, following the cascade of the notes through their rise and fall.

Helena’s heart turned over. _This_ was the man whose genial presence had left such a hole in Alpha’s spirit. The man who listened to concerts with his eyes closed, who hummed off key when he worked, but could somehow wring the voice of an angel from his precious violin. 

The music shifted into the next piece, and Bergman bit into his cake, still listening with attentive enchantment. _Thank you,_ he mouthed as she came to lay the blanket over him, and she found him a quiet smile, delighting in his delight, in his rediscovery of something that gave him pleasure.

A replacement, perhaps, for an alien voice that had kept him company throughout his long years of exile, but still a means of drawing him home; a reminder of a world he had, she had no doubt, once thought lost to him forever.

She took back the empty plate when he was done, handing him the glass of milk and reaching for the hypo at the end of the tray. It contained a careful concoction, a witch doctor’s brew that would, she hoped, give him a little relief from the threatening storm. Rest now, while his body metabolised the nutrition it so badly needed, and later a suppressant to slow the cellular reaction as the poisons cleared from his system. Drugs, too, to aid in cleansing the blood and a few chemical warriors to add reinforcement for the coming war.

He shivered at the touch of the hypo, an unconscious spasm, a bare hint of what might follow. The drugs took quick effect and he was soon asleep again, deceptively peaceful beneath the blankets that she drew up to tuck around his shoulders. She left him to rest, enfolded by the music even in sleep. The monitors behind him told a truer story – they, like the ragged note in his breathing, hinted at a crisis yet to come.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2159 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Hopes were running high in Command Centre when Koenig arrived that morning. The system had resolved itself into eight planets with the one they had been monitoring sitting in orbit right where they needed it to be – at the perfect distance from its sun. Any closer and life was likely to be seared from its surface. Any further out, and they’d have been looking at very short summers and long, icy winters, even in the equatorial regions. It also had three small moons, suggesting the presence of tidal zones. The atmosphere looked pretty promising too, although they wouldn’t know how breathable it was likely to be until they got an Eagle close enough to analyse it. 

Only one thing was puzzling. The planet had rings.

Six, maybe seven, rainbow coloured bands encircled the blue-green sphere, the type of structure more commonly associated with large gas giants, or airless worlds. The orbits of the three moons, all of them a lot smaller than Luna, passed through the span of colour at shallow angles, each point of exit marked by a different drift of shimmering dust. Alpha was still too far distant to determine what impact this might be having on the rings – or on the moons themselves – although it was obvious that the constant interaction had been going on for some time.

“It is unusual,” Maya said, studying computer’s latest readout, “but clearly not impossible. The rings may be the remains of a fourth orbital body, or perhaps the raw materials from which the three we can see have been formed. At a guess … this is a very young system. The size and spectral characteristics of the star would support that that theory, and it’s likely that the planet has only recently stabilised from the early stages of accretion and formation. Chemically and atmospherically it appears to be very similar to Earth in the late Precambrian, early Paleozoic ears. We may find life on the surface, but it is likely to be highly primitive.”

Koenig threw her a thoughtful glance.

“Plants?” he queried, and she smiled, no doubt remembering their previous conversation.

“Quite possibly, Commander. But we won’t know what sort of plant until we visit the surface.”

He nodded, accepting that with understanding. “Would its … early stage of development impact on the viability of anyone settling there?”

She shrugged. “It’s difficult to know, Commander. That’s far more dependent on geological and environmental conditions than the evolutionary stage of any life forms. But even with primitive forms of plant and animal life, the level of organic matter may still be sufficient to promote fertility in the soil, generate a stable oxygen cycle, and support the establishment of viable ecosystems.”

_Or produce flesh eating bacteria that will devour us alive …_ Koenig sighed, knowing that all of this was merely speculation at this stage. Alpha had learned the hard way that very little was ever what it first appeared to be - but hope was hard to kill, and while it was important to be cautious, it was equally important to take a positive attitude and approach. Otherwise they would miss that one in a million chance that might be waiting for them. Somewhere.

This might even be it.

Verdeschi appeared through the door, a sheaf of papers under his arm and his eyes on his commlock as it fed him a stream of data.

“Tony.” Koenig beckoned him over.

“Commander?”

“Have you picked your team yet?”

The younger man smiled at the question. He’d undoubtably been wondering why Koenig had given him the chance to lead this expedition, why his Commander would step aside from the opportunity to explore this new world – but he was clearly grateful that he had. Koenig had his reasons; one of them might the way in which becoming a father had added an extra layer of responsibility to his already burdened shoulders. Another lay in the need to spread those burdens – not just to allow others to help carry the load, but to give them chance to shine, to let them step up and gain the experience of command and decision making.

He knew he wasn’t getting any younger. He certainly wasn’t going to live forever – and one day, somebody else was going to need to take charge.

“Just confirming the list now,” Verdeschi said, waving his commlock in illustration. “Myself – obviously – and Alan to fly the second Eagle. Maya to get the overview. Carole – Dr Irwin – for Medical support. Andrew Grant from the bio-labs, Harvey Marshall to cover geology and meteorology, Carrie Rothsburg as DataTech, Di Sing from my team, and Franco Gambetti.” He paused to crack a wry grin. “It’s his turn to get the walk in the park.”

Koenig echoed the momentary grin with a wry smile of his own. Taking part in long range expeditions was risky – but the surface crews and the maintenance teams had petitioned to be able to volunteer for them, even if only to provide muscle for lugging equipment about. They – like the miners - worked hard at what could be very demanding and tedious jobs, and said that they deserved to be given the opportunity to see alien skies and walk on the surface of other worlds just as much as anyone else on Alpha. 

Helena had agreed. It was good for base moral, and knowing that there was a rota and that anyone could be called upon at any moment, helped to reduce the general frustration and discontent of being stuck on a big ball of rock, hurtling through space. 

‘Walking in the park’ was dangerous, of course. But only one person had ever refused the opportunity, and she’d had a very good excuse at the time …

“We leave at twenty-two hundred tonight. Touch down should be around Oh-three hundred lunar time tomorrow morning.”

“Good.” Koenig made a mental note of the times. “You’d better make sure you get some sleep before then. You too, Maya.”

“The Psychon nodded, pausing to redirect the data feeds so she could access them from the Eagle, before shutting down her console and making her way out of Command Centre. Verdeschi lingered, clearly having something on his mind.

“John – “ he ventured, struggling to articulate his concerns. “If this is _it_ …”

Koenig threw him a look, then glanced up – at the main screen and the tiny, blue-green marble sitting at its centre. He understood what the man was saying, all too well.

Alpha had been travelling far too long. But leaving it was still going to be a wrench.

“Let’s cross that bridge when – _if_ – it comes to it, okay, Tony?”

“Okay, Commander.” The brief exchange – the I know, and I got this affirmation – was all the reassurance Verdeschi needed. “Take it one step at a time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Koenig agreed. “The way we always do …”

* * *

Extract from the primary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazarus. Year 6 – 2158 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Helena was in the nursery when her commlock beeped for her attention. She’d slipped away from Med-Centre, not, for once, just taking a moment to look in on her son, but to speak to Dr Vincent and assure herself that the plans for Operation Exodus were clear and up to date. The children were Alpha’s most precious possessions; their welfare was paramount, and the plans were continually updated to reflect their numbers, their development, and their individual needs

The Nursery had been excavated well below Alpha’s surface levels, the geology that cradled it assessed to the minute inch, and the construction teams working to precise and exacting standards. It was designed to be as secure and as safe as it could possibly be, and the routes from its heart to the evacuation points had been carefully mapped and were just as carefully monitored. The lowest levels of Med-centre provided one pathway, the lowest level of the accommodation a second, and – if push came to shove, there was a third route down through the catacombs and from there a choice of more than one Eagle hanger. In the event of a catastrophic emergency or a serious restriction on timescales, all three routes would come into play.

She and Ben Vincent had been sitting in his office, reviewing the arrangements for all of them. If she’d paused occasionally to smile at the gurgling baby that lay tucked into the curl of her arm, he’d not drawn attention to the fact; he was getting very used to distracted mothers – and fathers – visiting his domain.

Outside his office lay the large and airy play room, currently filled with day cots, crawling mats, and innumerable sets of plastic bricks and assorted education toys. Beyond that was the night nursery, partially partitioned to create individual rooms for new mothers, fretful or sick babies, or simply parents wanting to stay overnight. Many had started taking their child back to their living quarters when they came off duty, but staggered shifts and work rotas meant that every child spent some time sleeping under the watchful eye of Dr Vincent’s team. Most of the other Doctors spent at least one shift in the nursery, of course, but she’d put him in charge, and he took that responsibly very seriously.

The ‘official’ head of the nursery section was actually Jackie Crawford – at five, a determined graduate from his mother’s quarters and first inhabitant of the study and dormitory facilities that had begun to extend from the Nursery’s core. He was, inevitably, a lonely child, but they did their best to give him structure and support, along with time to play as well as learn. Vincent had, in a moment of inspiration, made him a part of the Nursery team, and he’d sit in team meetings with studied attention, proud to belong and happy to be consulted on matters that directly affected him.

He was out in the playroom when the call came in, happily reading aloud to several of the older children, none of whom were old enough to understand what he was saying to them, but all of them benefitting from the simple bonding exercise, making connections and developing confidence as a peer group.

“Dr Russell,” she announced, lifting her commlock to respond to its demanding bleep. She had to move it away from the reach of a small but determined hand. Michael was teething, and anything and everything was constantly in danger of being stuffed into his mouth. “Don’t do that, Michael. Comlocks aren’t for chewing.”

Nurse Graham’s face appeared on the tiny screen. “It’s Jalisa, Dr Russel. Can we talk?”

She glanced up at Dr Vincent, who nodded understandingly.

“I think we’re done here,” he said. “I’ll be out in the play room if you need me.”  
She waited until the door slid shut behind him, watching through the half glassed wall as he walked over to join Jackie in the book corner.

“All clear,” she murmured, returning her attention to the commlock. “Trouble?”

“I’m not sure.” The nurse glanced over her shoulder. “His temperature is up, and – I think he’s experiencing pain. He’s unsettled and distressed.”

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

She forced herself to be casual about it, carefully settling Michael in his day-cot and taking a moment to make faces at him, and playing with his upstretched hands. She left him laughing and strolled out of the playroom, nodding her thanks at Vincent and finding Jackie an encouraging smiled. Once out in the corridor she increased her pace considerably, summoning a travel-tube as she approached the Nursery station, and anxiously pacing up and down it until it spilled her back into Medcentre and she could cover the rest of the distance at a run.

Jalisa Graham was waiting in the monitoring section of the iso-ward, her face drawn with anxious concern. On the other side of the partition, Bergman sat hunched on the bed, his arms clasped forward and his head upon his knees. He was shivering violently, and Helena had no need to look at the monitors to know he was in trouble.

“Fetch me the mix we prepared yesterday,” she snapped. “The blue vials. Better bring the white one as well.” The nurse nodded, heading for the door; Helena took a deep breath and hurried to her patient’s side.

Bergman’s head went back at her touch, his eyes distant and his lungs heaving for breath. She bit back her reaction to his distress and gently reached to unlock his tensioned arms, guiding him back into a prone position. His hands closed convulsively on her shoulders, drawing her down with him; his skin was feverish to the touch and he looked around wildly, fighting for focus and clearly not recognising her for a moment or two.

“Easy,” she murmured, hoping he would know her voice, needing to settle him; his grip – not that strong in the first place - fell away, and he relaxed a little, sinking into the shiver of his distress.

Nurse Graham reappeared to hand her a loaded hypo. She took it and started issuing instructions while laying the instrument to the distended vein at the side of Bergman’s throat. As soon as the drug hissed in, she thrust the hypodermic back into the nurses’ hands and reached for a series of diagnostic switches on the wall behind the bed. She had to flick them one-handedly, the other intent in holding down her now spasming patient; the powerful concoction she’d prepared took only seconds to act, and slowly the body beneath her hand began to relax, tension leaving his muscles and his breathing slowing to a more even pace. She knew better than to follow suit. She’d been expecting some sort of crisis to kick in, and she knew there was still a long way to go.

“We’d better restrain him” she told the nurse when she presented her with the second installment of drugs. “I don’t know how bad these spasm are going to get, and we need to keep him on the bed, and stop him from injuring himself. Better fix up a glucose drip as well – he’s burning up far too much energy, and he’ll need fuel. He’s no reserves to drawn on - nothing left to fight this with.”

She picked up the second hypo: another witches brew, aimed at fighting the inevitable fever, backed up with sedatives and something to ease the impact of pain. Her patient was still shivering, although not as violently as before, and his eyes were distant, seeming fixed on nothing at all. It was a relief to administer the second drug, and with it bring him the ease of sedated sleep; there was nothing more she could do. The rest of the fight would depend on how much strength there was left in his ravaged and half-starved frame.

“Sit with him,” she ordered softly, pausing to adjust the lightweight blanket and drop the now empty hypo on the nearby tray. “Watch for convulsions, and make sure he doesn’t choke. I’ll get Mae-lin to relieve you – I don’t want him left unattended for a moment, understand?”

The dark haired woman nodded; she was a competent nurse and Dr Russell knew she’d be diligent in her care. Even so, it was hard to walk away. “Call me if there’s any change,” she said. “I’ll check in before the evening shift and – we’ll see how he is in the morning.”

She made it to the privacy of the corridor before her professional composure slipped; she turned to slump against the wall, tilting her head back and forcing herself to take several slow, breaths. A heavy, helpless, ache was settling inside her, knotting her stomach and tugging at long buried threads of grief. By any assessment, the situation was hopeless – and yet … and yet, she couldn’t just stand by and let the inevitable happen. As long as there was the barest chance, the faintest hope, she would do everything in her power to help him fight, to win this … impossible battle. Fate had saved him when it had seemed that nothing could. Now she silently prayed that fate would continue to be kind – that, along with the miracle of that survival, they would be granted the miracle of his life …

* * *

Extract from the secondary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal Log of Doctor Helena Russell. Year 6 – 2158 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

John Koenig’s face was drawn, even in sleep. The long years of his command had written themselves deeply into his character, making even the act of rest little more than a brief respite from his burden of duty. There had been rare occasions when he could truly relax – and at such times sleep could wipe some of the lines from his face and bring him a little peace – but for now the weight of his world clearly lay heavily on him, making sleep a necessity he endured, rather than the escape he needed.

Helena hesitated to disturb him. He had stayed on duty long enough to see the Eagles depart on their mission, and would undoubtedly want to be awake for the report of their planetfall - and he needed the sleep, needed the time to refresh his strength and recover his energies.

But she’d sought him out to share an equally rare and precious moment with him; an opportunity that she knew both of them needed right now. Sometimes – just _sometimes_ – it was possible for the two of them to be together, to be just John, and Helena for a while, free, as much as they could be, from the conflicting demands of their responsibilities.

He stirred as she hesitated, opening dark eyes that – for a for a moment – studied her from unfathomable depths. Then he smiled, seeing the child in her arms, and sat up, holding out his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must have dozed off. I was waiting for you.”

She crossed the distance between them, laying his son in his arms so she could sit beside him, draping her arm around his shoulders with affection. “You need the sleep,” she told him, softly. “You work too hard.”

His hair still held the hint of dampness from his shower; the silk beneath her hand was soft and warm from its contact with his skin.

“I have too much to do,” he protested absently, and, glancing up from his son’s smiling face added, gently; “And so do you.”

She sighed, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her blonde hair tumble where it will. “”You bring me the work, John. And the worry.” She found him a smile, her hand reaching to caress Michael’s cheek with gentle care. Tiny hands flailed for a moment, then grabbed, capturing her fingers with determined strength. This was the moment she’d needed – feeling the sense of secure warmth that surrounded them, cradling the three of them in quiet intimacy. “ _And_ the joy.”

He smiled back – a tired smile, but a happy one – and bent to lightly brush her cheek with his lips. 

“We cannot change what we are,” he sighed, and laid his hand over hers, capturing Michael’s fingers along with her own. “Nor, I think, would we chose too, even if we had the power.”

The boy gurgled with delight, an innocent, unaware of his parent’s concerns, and they shared a mutual smile, acknowledging the preciousness of the moment, of being – for once – no more and no less than any other couple, rejoicing in their child.

Koenig savoured it for as long as he could, then sighed a second time, needing to ask a question that she wasn’t entirely sure how to answer.

“How is he, Helena?” 

He wasn’t talking about Michael; she echoed his sigh and straightened up with reluctance. Since the initial moment of crisis earlier in the day, Bergman’s condition had continued to deteriorate with frightening inevitability. She had left him wrapped in a feeble delirium, oblivious to those that tended him, beset by fever, and wracked by body shivering spasms that threatened to tear him apart.

“He’s dying, John.”

She paused, knowing that her answer was honest, but still wearily hopeful that it would turn out to be a lie.

“According to all the books, all my training – he should have died hours ago. His age, his weakened condition … anyone else, their heart would have given out on them long before this. Long before we found him, probably. But that damned artiforg … it just keeps pumping away and – _he_ won’t let go. Too stubborn by far. Clinging to life for the sheer hell of it. Riding out the storm and grabbing for every lifeline we’re throwing him.”

He looked at her with concern. She couldn’t keep the strain of the day from her voice; she was tired - tired by the effort she’d had to make to stay calm, to keep her professional mask from slipping while she watched an old and much loved friend fight for his life. 

Knowing there was only so much she could do to help him. Wanting to do so much more …

“Is he stubborn enough?” Koenig settle Michael in his lap, freeing an arm to slide around her and hold her close. “All those lifelines? Will they bring him through?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, relaxing into his embrace, wanting to be held like that forever. “But we’re not giving up on him. Not _this_ time …”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Planetary Expedition Arcobelano Eagle Six, Captain Alan Carter, commanding  
Year 6 – 2159 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

“Nearly there.” Carter’s voice held a note of relief The long haul from Alpha had been tedious hours to a man who prefers flying to be a challenge. Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat beside him, Doctor Carole Irwin – team medic and Carter’s chosen life-mate – spared him an affectionate glance. She was concentrating on the atmospheric readings currently being relayed to her from Eagle Three, which was a little way ahead of them. So far, everything looked pretty good.

Seen from space, the planet was enticingly beautiful; a swirling concoction of blues, whites and greens, ringed by brilliant bands of red, gold, and white. Their approach had resolved the rings into several broad bands of diffuse gas and debris circling the planet at roughly the distance that Luna had once orbited Earth. Each band was separated by what appeared to be empty space – gaps just about the right width to account for the passage of the smaller moons as they passed through the rings, following their own, separate orbits. It must have taken centuries for each moon to sweep the relevant gaps clear of debris; the one close enough to see in any detail had clearly gathered up most of the particulates from its regular sweep, since it gleamed with the same soft shine as the central gold ring.

Carter frowned, estimating angles of approach, and taking a moment to line the miniature moon up as a navigational marker. He didn’t want to risk flying through one of the rings, if he could avoid it; the Eagle might be tough enough to survive a few micro-meteorites, but the rings had big rocks in them. Even the area between them would be suspect, since a closer look had revealed the glint of smaller particulates drifting through what had initially looked like empty spaces. No doubt the moons gathered up most of the materials as they ploughed through the gaps, leaving impact debris floating behind them. A slow, churning pulverisation that might – eventually – reduce the entire rings to dust. 

His comm-link lit up: he flicked the switch and Verdeschi’s voice rolled into the cockpit, speaking to Koenig back on Alpha.  
“The innermost ring appears to be highly charged, John. Maya thinks that could be interaction between the edges of the ring and the upper atmosphere, so we don’t want to risk running too close to it this far out. We’ll drop into atmosphere in the upper hemisphere and run an aerial survey once we’re closer to the ground.”

“Whatever you think best, Tony.” Koenig’s voice was softened by distance and overlaid with a faint crackle. Carter frowned as he heard it, reaching to adjust controls to see if he could get a clearer signal.

“We’re not reading you too well, John – we could be picking up some interference from the rings. Hopefully it won’t get any worse.” Verdeschi sounded worried – understandably so. The two Eagles were five hours out from Alpha and heading towards an unknown world. Without communications, they’d be completely on their own.

“Roger that, Tony.” Koenig’s voice echoed that hint of concern. “We’ll keep an eye on it from this end. Let me know if …” His next words were lost in a sudden hiss of static. Carter swore, thumbing the mike to add his own voice to the conversation.

“Eagle Six to Eagle Three. We’ve just lost Alpha’s transmission. Do you read me, Tony?”

“Just about, Alan.” The crackle was getting louder, the system struggling to punch through the rising static. “Follow us down – we should have ship to ship once we hit atmosphere.”

“I hope you’re right,” Cater muttered. “Hang on, Kitten,” he advised, throwing his company a sideways grin. “I’m about to put my foot down.”

He pulled back on the control yoke, and turned up the thrust. Skillfully handled, the sudden impetus lifted the Eagle over the edge of the rings and sent it hurtling after its companion and towards the surface of the planet, far below.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2159 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Frustrated and eaten with anxiety, Koenig slammed his fist down onto the top of the communication’s console. It didn’t make any difference to the reception, and it made Sandra Benes jump; she threw him a sympathetic and slightly pained glance, which he returned with a equally pained and apologetic one of his own. They’d received Verdeschi’s message identifying his intent to enter the planet’s atmosphere and then … _nothing._ They’d boosted their power outputs, they’d instigated a range of filters to eliminate static and interference, and he’d even sent an Eagle out to the midpoint of planetary distance to act as a signal relay.  
It was possible that Eagles Three and Six were still receiving them – but nothing was coming back. Nothing at all.

“All right,” he said grimly, abstractedly massaging his now bruised fist. “We’ll proceed on the assumption that it’s just communications that have failed. They have thirty-six hours to complete the preliminary survey before we need to make a decision about Operation Exodus, and another twenty four before the decision become irrevocable. After that … Sandra?”

She hesitated for a moment, checking the figures on her screen.

“We will be within Eagle range of the planet for a total of five days, Commander. Perhaps five and half if we position a refuelling Eagle to meet a returning ship. We will have already passed the launch and return point after four and half days, so – any further Eagles sent with the intention to return must be launched before then.”  
Koenig nodded his thanks.

“We’ll give them their thirty six hours,” he said. “After that, we’ll see.”


	9. Part Eight: After a fall such as this, I shall think nothing of tumbling down stairs.

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Planetary Expedition Arcobelano Eagle Six, Captain Alan Carter, commanding  
Year 6 – 2160 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

The planet looked like one vast page from the history books – the ones that came with titles like ‘The Dawn of Life’. Warm, shallow seas lapped at shore lines where vast forests of ferns and horsetails spread read, green and gold across the landscape. Insects – or something like them – with wingspans that easily matched the height of a man, darted like living jewels in and out of the skyward thrusting greenery.

Carole Irwin stared out of the forward observation port, absolutely enchanted by the glimpses of landscape that the Eagle’s progress was revealing to her. The smile on her face delighted their pilot – but he was too busy flying the ship to take in the details she was so entranced by. In the passenger section behind him he could hear Andrew Grant, their biologist, muttering delightedly to himself as their zig-zagging survey uncovered yet another marvel on the surface below. No doubt he’d be swapping exclamations with Marshall once they’d both got their feet on the ground. Their geologist was probably busy making equally delighted noises in the other Eagle, although Carter wasn’t entirely sure why flying over endless fields of giant Horsetails, dodging the occasional electrical storm, and skirting a couple of active volcanoes would generate such happiness.

“Some people need to get out more,” he noted with a sideways grin. Carole laughed, clearly knowing what he meant.

“I think we all need that,” she said. “You think this might be it?”

He shrugged, easing the throttles down a little so that he could keep a sensible distance between their Eagle and the one ahead. “Too early to say. Looks like a nice place, but …”

“There’s always a ‘but’,” she acknowledged softly. “Is that another storm cloud ahead?”

They were closing on the equatorial line under the rings; the sky ahead was turbulent, and much darker than the clear air they’d been flying through. He cut the throttles back even further, frowning as he noticed the way that the verdant Horsetail forest was turning into open plains beneath them. Nothing that unusual about a change in the vegetation – except that the line of it was suspiciously linear; one minute they were over thick forest, and the next they were above tangled scrubland, the edge of it running along the forest wall as straight as a line drawn on a map …

“Aw, _crikes,_ ” he swore, swinging the Eagle round and hastily hitting the commlink with his thumb. “Tony! Turn around! Don’t fly under the … “

Too late. Eagle Eight had reached the edge of the darkened sky. Lightning flared from ground to sky, wreathing the ship in a halo of fire and light. The Eagle bucked and jerked in reaction twisting and tumbling as the sudden surge of power tore through systems and instrumentation. Carter swore, loudly and profanely as the vessel practically fell out of the sky; he was barely in time to stop their own forward plunge as a secondary discharge sparked at their intrusion.

“Strap in, all hands!” he yelled, fighting to ride the impact as the inevitable rush of disturbed air caught hold of them. Eagle Six slew sideways, throwing them into a momentary spin. Then a bolt of lightning struck their starboard engine, jolting them in a completely different direction; the next few minutes were a blur of angled motion, the stomach churning sensation of a fast descent, and the whine of protesting engines as he wrestled to regain a measure of control.

The planet rushed towards them. He pulled back on the controls with one hand, hit buttons and flicked switches with the other; somehow he managed to slow their descent, giving him time to pull out of their precipitate dive and bring the Eagle down hard and fast. The landing legs hit ground with a bone jarring thump, and the entire vessel wallowed and shook, throwing him forward in his shock harness, and sending a scattering of unsecured items bouncing around the Eagle’s beak.

“Ow,” he heard Carole protest from somewhere beside him. He reached to pull the kill switch, cutting all power to the still labouring engines, and turned to locate her, his heart momentarily in his mouth.

She too had been caught and held by her shock harness; she was leaning back slowly, rubbing at a bruised cheek where something must have hit her on the way down. Probably her helmet, which was sitting upside down on the console in front of her.

“Nice landing,” she gulped, fighting down a semi-hysterical laugh of relief. “I mean – at least we’re upright.”

“Too damn right,” he said, decidedly relieved to find she was more or less okay. As was he. He wasn’t entirely sure about the Eagle though. “I had power, and too precious a cargo to let her land nose first. You okay?”

She nodded, acknowledging the inevitable compliment with a wry smile. “I think so.” She leant back into the couch and called over her shoulder. “Andy? Mahesh? You still with us?”

“All present and correct.” Mahesh Di Sing appeared in the doorway, looking a little dishevelled. “Andy’s a little bruised back there, but – nothing serious. One of the storage pods jolted loose,” he explained at Carole’s questioning look. “He got a load of survey gear dumped over him. Sample bottles and specimen boxes, mostly.”

“I’ll check him over,” Carole said, fisting open her shock harness and starting to climb to her feet. “While you – “ she waved at the cockpit a little helplessly. “check everything else, I guess.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carter grinned, his smile slipping away into serious lines as Di Sing took her place in the co-pilot’s seat. “See if you can raise Eagle Eight,” he said. “I need to run a full status check on our systems.”

* * *

Eagle Six was in surprisingly good condition for a ship that had survived both a lightning strike, and far too hard a landing. Carter had managed to bring her down on a fairly flat part of the open plain, close to the forest’s edge, countering the last few feet of the fall with a desperate last minute burst from the landing thrusters; she seemed to have dispersed most of the impact through her shock absorbers, although he suspected they’d not last long in the next landing, no matter how gentle it might be. The starboard engine reported a couple of fried circuit boards, which wasn’t a surprise; they had the spares for those and replacing them would be an easy job. The port engine appeared to be fine. All her atmospheric seals had survived, and nothing vital appeared to have been lost or damaged.

“I think she’ll fly,” he reported to her gathered crew over a quick and welcome brew in the passenger module. “Although I wouldn’t want to try anything fancy. Did anyone see what happened to Eight?”

Di Sing’s efforts with the comms-systems had raised nothing but static – a fierce and omnipresent interference that echoed the problem they’d had when they’d lost touch with Alpha. It was impacting on some their long range instruments, too – and there was an odd tingle in the air, the flicker of static shock shimmering from some of the metallic surfaces. 

“I think it came down closer to – to the line.” Grant waved at the monitor that was showing the world outside. The vista started at one side with the loom of the forest, and fell away across the scrubland. Above the forest, the sky was a clear azure blue; on the other edge of the monitor it vanished into a dark and ominous cloud, its interior flickering with the occasional spark of light. It was clear now where the electrical storms they’d encountered earlier in the day had come from; the high level of charge they’d identified in the planet’s inner ring appeared to be echoed by a similar level of charge in the upper atmosphere below it – probably some kind of interaction between the orbiting rings and the planet’s magnetic fields. From the way the forest ended so abruptly and the scrubland beyond it struggled to survive in the highly charged atmosphere, this wasn’t a temporary phenomenon. 

“The whole damn planet’s encircled by a bloody generator,” Carter swore. “And we flew right into the middle of it. No wonder we’ve lost comms. All right,” he decided. “Now we know we’re in once piece, we’d better go and find the others. And that means having to walk. The only direction I’m flying this bird again is back the way we came and straight home thereafter. We landed pretty close to our original flight path, so – if we head along that as far as we can, and then scout left and right we should be able to spot where Eight came down. Tony was turning her as that first bolt hit, so they should be somewhere _this_ side of the storm. 

“Di Sing – you’d better stick with this Eagle, just in case they, or something else, comes looking for it. If they arrive without us, send up a flare – a red one, so we know it’s ours – and we’ll head back. We have … twenty-four hours before Alpha needs to start making decisions, and we need to be home, or at least in touch with them, before then.

“Anything we need to know before we head out? Andy?”

Grant sighed, pushing his now empty cup away from him. “Apart from – wear the rubber boots and try not to act like a tree?”

“Apart from that,” Carter affirmed with a wry grin. “Any wildlife to look out for?”

“Well,” the biologist said slowly, “this is a world at a very primitive stage of development, so … mostly insect life and lower order forms. Nothing really big – no dinosaurs – but … Earth had millipedes the size of dairy cows when this kind of vegetation was predominant. There may be a few hunting arachnids – and something like dragon flies with up to five foot wing spans? We’re not that close to open water, though, so we should be okay if we keep our eyes open and stay out of the forest.”

“Okay.” Carter considered options, and came to obvious conclusions. “We stay suited up for maximum protection. Atmosphere reads pretty good, if a little ozone heavy, so helmets off, but kept to hand. I’ll unlimber the laser rifle – Carole, you and Andy grab a stun gun, and unpack the emergency medical kit. Canteens all round; this might turn out be quite a hike.”

* * *

Extract from the secondary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log. Resources Officer: Paula Abanga: Year 6 – 2160 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

“I just think this is going turn out the way _every_ planet we’ve passed has turned out.” Paula Abanga was in full flow, addressing her assembled audience with the sort of personal authority that a lot of self-confidence and just enough ruthlessness had garnered her over the course of her career. “A lot of promise, a little hope – and the usual disappointment at the end of it. I suppose nobody is shooting at us, this time, but – really – is that much of an improvement?”

The crowd murmured unhappily. They were gathered in one of the dining halls; the inevitable tensions on Alpha – with an unknown planet under investigation and all communications lost with the survey team – had brought people together to talk, with heated speculation, about the possibility of Operation Exodus, along with some of the other recent events of note. As usual, she’d turned the discussions to her advantage: being firmly of the opinion that a planet which cut off communications as soon as an Eagle appeared in its orbit was unlikely to be a sensible place to colonise, she was busy drumming up support for her current bugbear – the hidden caverns and Koenig’s seeming reluctance to let anyone into them.

Even the formation of the proposed ‘clean-up’ teams had been put on hold while the planet took the Commander’s attention, which meant that, so far, no one other than Command crew and the initial mining team had seen anything more than a few minutes of video footage, a handful of leaves and flowers, and a startling explosion of air and detritus as _something_ left the surface of the moon.

The official word was ‘seeds’. Which sounded highly unlikely to her, although she couldn’t figure out what else it might have been. 

“Why are we wasting resources and energy scouting out a distant planet, when we have the start of whole new world right here – right under our feet? And why is the Commander so intent on restricting access to it? I feel that we – that all of us – should be able to benefit from what’s been found. You’ve seen the recordings: huge spaces, filled with greenery and fresh, running water. Fruit on the vine. Room to live – room to _grow._ Why – it would almost be like being Earthside again!”

That raised a murmur of agreement. The crowd began to break up, small groups drifting off to have lively discussions while others headed back to duty posts and the waiting demands of work. 

Abanga smiled, satisfied at the reaction, pleased to think that she’d got them talking – and might be talking others round to her point of view. With a little more of Alpha’s opinions behind her, she’d have ammunition to approach Koenig again; she might even be able to persuade him to rethink his approach. He was, she was sure, merely being his usual, over cautious self, trying to protect everyone from what were probably imagined rather than actual risks. She endured his discipline on Alpha, understanding the need for tight control and close management of … well, everything. But the caverns – the caverns promised so much freedom. And the chance for someone with the right mindset and the right opportunities to establish their own little kingdom, and to exercise their own rules, away from Alpha’s rigid restrictions and limits. 

Maybe that was what Koenig was so afraid of …

She rose to her feet and started to make her own way out, intending to head back to her office and sort out some of the schedules that were awaiting her approval. As she passed the otherwise empty end of the room, she caught sight of Maxymiew seated alone at a corner table; he was nursing a cup of something between his hands, and his face was shadowed with thought. The glance he threw in her direction was intense and unsettling; she fought off a sudden shiver and hastily turned away, conscious of his eyes on her, on the way he seemed shrouded in misery and gloom.

She looked back – once – as she left the room. The man was still watching her, his expression hooded and his eyes intense. Normally, she liked being looked at. Loved being the centre of attention. But right then?

Right then, the intensity of his gaze felt … almost frightening.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazerus: Year 6 – 2160 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

John Koenig stared through the glass partition in the quiet serenity of the isolation bay, his face schooled into stern lines, but his eyes speaking volumes. Bergman had slipped from his delirium into a deep unconsciousness that was practically coma; he lay still and silent as if already a corpse, with only the flicker of the monitors revealing his stubborn hold on life. Helena’s eyes flicked from one man to the other and back again as she silently wished there was something she could say or do that would make a difference. _Any_ difference. It was clear from his expression that Koenig’s hopes and expectations rang empty now, a whisper of impossible dreams, dashed by the starkness of reality.

_Perhaps,_ she thought wearily, _it would have been better to have left him where we found him._

He’d been expecting to die. Had been, it seemed, willing to welcome it, to welcome the end of his long exile. That would have been – fitting, in a way, to allow him that last surrender, to gift his life to his alien hostess as she returned her life to the stars. Better, perhaps, than this slow and painful decline into nothingness, this last gasp spent just as rescue came within reach …

“He’s living on borrowed time,” Helena offered gently, wanting to say more, but finding no words of comfort or pretence.

“He’s been doing that for over twenty years.” Koenig couldn’t keep a hint of bitterness tugging at his words. “Her time, perhaps.”

Helena frowned, momentarily puzzled.

“His wife?” she ventured.

Koenig nodded slowly. He was clearly staring, not at the scene on the other side of the glass, but at some memory, shrouded in time. “He never talked about her, you know? She died before I even knew him, but – there were other friends who’d met her once or twice. And there was always a picture of her – hanging in his office, lurking in a laboratory where he was working … One of those – goofy, caught in an unguarded moment, pictures. She probably hated it – but … I wish I had met her. She always looked - _kind._ ”

“Patient, perhaps?” Helena moved a little closer, reaching down to wrap his hand in hers. “She’d have to be,” she defended, at his look. “Agreeing to be _his_ wife. Or else … very much in love.”

He squeezed her hand with gentle understanding, and she squeezed back, offering both sympathy and support. “Maybe,” he allowed softly. “I know he never got over losing her. All he had left was his work. So much on Alpha is down to him. His ideas, his enthusiasms, his faith in science … and his faith in us.” Koenig sighed, turning his back to the glass and offering her a weary smile.

“In some ways, we never lost him,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips and holding it there, cradled in both if his own.

“We haven’t lost him yet,” she found herself saying, despite all the indications, all the prognosis and her own predictions. There was so much about both these men that she didn’t know. Koenig had also lost his wife – in the terrorist attack on Geneva back in 86. What deeper sympathies had these two shared in the time before she came to know them both? She knew they’d called each other friend long before Breakaway – but how deep had that friendship run? Had Koenig found in the older man the fatherly understanding he’d lacked in his earlier life? Had their fellowship begun as mentor and student, only to morph into much, much more? They were far enough apart in age to be father and son – and close enough, in their understanding of each other, to be brothers. Not always agreeing, not always on the same side in every argument, yet always – _always_ – being there when the other needed them to be. 

“I know you’ll do your best,” Koenig was saying, smiling at her. “You always do.”

_It’s not always enough,_ she wanted to protest, but caught the thought before it could escape. She wasn’t about to admit defeat. There was far too much at stake here. Not just the rekindling of the anxious hope that flickered in her lover’s weary eyes – or the restoration of her own ragged heart, beaten and torn by too many losses, too many people she _couldn’t_ save. This was the miracle that Alpha needed. Five years before, the base hadn’t just lost a respected and much loved member of its crew. It had lost a part of its soul.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Planetary Expedition Arcobelano Eagle Six, Captain Alan Carter, commanding  
Year 6 – 2160 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Eagle Eight was a mess. 

A twisted, shattered wreck that had ploughed its way into a waiting marshland, leaving a raw and ragged scar torn into the earth. 

It hadn’t been that hard to find: the thin dance of smoke from one of the burned out thrusters had caught Carter’s eye soon after they’d begun their hike, and he’d managed to keep his eye on it all the way, despite the buffeting wind and the way the sky had darkened as they’d moved deeper into the scrubland. What he’d feared might have been a long and fruitless hike had turned out to be no more than two hour’s journey. Not one that had entirely passed without incident, however. Grant had only narrowly avoided becoming lunch for something resembling an over large trapdoor spider, and twice Carter had had to unlimber the laser rifle to dissuade the approach of some winged – _things_ – that had objected to them traipsing over their territory. 

It was shortly after he’d driven away the second of those that they’d reached the edge of the marsh, to find the remains of the Eagle sinking slowly into its embrace. Her crew had been watching its demise from the questionable safety of dryer land, perched on the various boxes of equipment and other things they’d been able to salvage from the wreck. Miraculously, no-one had actually been killed in the Eagle’s precipitate plunge – although Carrie Rothsburg was nursing a damaged shoulder, and Verdeschi was drifting in and out of consciousness, having cracked his skull on something in the cockpit during their tumble out of the sky. Both Harvey Marshall and Frank Gambetti had escaped with mostly bumps and bruises, while Maya – being Maya – had sought refuge in the safety of an alien armour. She’d been the one to tear open the jammed pod doors and rescue most of the salvaged equipment; but after that she’d needed to rest, the aftermath of the crash and the energy she’d expended in her hasty transformation catching up with her.

“Is Tony going to be all right?” she was asking, hovering at Carole Irwin’s shoulder as she checked the man over, and trying not to look as anxious as she obviously felt. Carole leaned back with a sigh.

“I’ve done what I can,” she said. “But he’ll be better off back on Alpha. Carrie, too – she’s got several cracked bones, and I think some of them are going to need pinning. I’m a little – limited in supplies, here.”

“Can we move him?” Carter – after investigating the wreck – had been sorting through the boxes of salvage, wincing as he realised that they’d have to leave most of it behind. It was bad enough losing an Eagle – but the survey equipment and some of the perishable stuff was going to be hard to replace.

The doctor nodded. “I think so. We do have a stretcher – and he’s stable enough for the moment. Carrie will need help, though. I’ve had to pump her full of painkillers and she’s a little out of it.”

“Alright.” Carter took a long look round at his people, then glanced up and cursed, softly. “Time to move, folks. Back to Eagle Six, at least. Alpha may have to wait a while.”

Above them, the clouds had thickened even further, turning the late afternoon into the gloom of a seriously overcast sky. Lightning flickered threateningly deep in the rolling mass, and the inevitable crack of thunder followed it, promising far worse to come.

“Storm rolling in,” he announced, a little unnecessarily. “Let’s hit the road – or we’re all going to get very wet.”

_Wet_ was an understatement. The skies opened up long before they were in sight of their destination. It did mean that none of the local wildlife bothered them on the return journey, but it was a miserable trip. The sleeting rain quickly turned the scrubland underfoot into a slippery morass of mud, and – although what fell was warm – each pounding drop hit with noticeable force. Lightning danced around them, making all them very glad to be sheltered within their cumbersome space suits. Most of those who had them, quickly affixed their helmets – although Carole sacrificed hers to protect Verdeschi, and Grant, guiding the injured data tech, had given his to her, no doubt realising that she needed it far more than he did. Marshall and Gambetti were acting as stretcher bearers; Carter had taken point, and Maya, having yielded her place at Verdeschi’s side to his doctor, had taken the rear guard. 

“Damn this planet,” Carter cursed, dropping back to pointedly hand Carole his helmet before striding forward again. “We should have turned back when we lost contact with Alpha.”

A bolt from the sky tore into a ragged horsetail as they passed it – a mere stripling compared to the giants of the forest ahead, but tall enough to draw the discharge away from them. They picked up their pace, conscious that there was nowhere to seek shelter other than the Eagle, which was still some distance ahead. Carter was anxiously looking out for it, hoping that the vehicle’s frame would safely dissipate any serious strikes from the storm. If something vital got hit – and they didn’t have a spare – they’d have no hope of making it out of atmosphere, let alone back to Alpha.

“How long do you think this’ll last? Carole asked, catching up with him for a moment. She slipped and had to half stumble back.

“No idea,” he admitted, catching her before she fell a second time, helping her get her feet under her again. “But hopefully not too long. Think I got a good gallon in my undies, already.”

She smiled at that, knowing he was joking in order to distract her from their predicament.

“I’m worried about Tony,” she said. “I’m not Helena. I can’t work miracles with nothing but sticky tape and spiderwebs.”

“She didn’t think she could, either,” he protested, then sighed. “You’ll do your best – and so will I. We’re out of here as soon as this storm clears, I promise. If Alpha doesn’t hear from us soon, they’ll be sending out another Eagle. And ten to one it’ll make the same mistake we did.”

He glanced back at the group plodding along behind him.

“They may not be as lucky as we were …”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazerus: Year 6 – 2161 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Twenty-four hours had passed – long hours, in which Alpha maintained an inevitable vigil, and an old man continued to fight for his life. Finally, in the small hours of that morning, nearly two days after the initial onset of the crisis, Victor Bergman stirred, and woke. The ward that held him was dimly lit, and the only sound that reached him was the soft, raggedness of his own breath. For a long time, he simply lay there, taking in his environment, absorbing the reality of what – for so long – had been the desires of desperate dreams. Then he let a slow smile curl across his lips, turned comfortably on his side, and let himself slide away into a gentle sleep.

The smile was still there when Helena looked in on her patient some five hours later. She found him sleeping peacefully, all trace of fever gone, his vital signs weak, but undeniably stable. She felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and her hands fumbled a little as she tugged her commlock from its clip.

“John?

Koenig’s face looked back at her, drawn with anxiety, the strain of waiting for news clearly written deep.

“Helena? Something wrong?”

“No.” She tried – and just about succeeded – keeping a ripple of relieved laughter out of her voice. “Nothing wrong. I just thought … I thought you’d like to know.” She couldn’t help the smile that followed, but he’d be the only one to see it. “After our discussion last night. About the defensive chemicals in the caverns’ atmosphere? Indications are that … the cumulative effect is not … necessarily fatal, as we’d feared.”

He frowned, momentarily puzzled, and the implications of her words – and maybe the message of that smile – sank in. A look of welcome relief, quickly covered, flashed across his face, and he nodded, as though acknowledging a routine report.

“I’d like to see your figures on that,” he said casually. “When I have a moment. It sounds like good news.”

“I think, so, John. Of course,” she went on, aiming for the same professional tone he’d found for her, “it is only preliminary work that’s been completed so far, but – it is looking far more positive than I thought it might.”

“Understood,” he acknowledged. “I’ll be down to see you later.”

Deep under Alpha, standing firm and commandingly in Command Centre, John Koenig cut the link frorm his Chief Medical Officer and casually clipped his commlock back onto his belt. Sandra Benes was looking at him a little puzzledly, and he gave her a curtly patient _carry on_ nod that bent her head back to her console and the readings it displayed. Inside he was cheering, quietly. That was one hurdle crossed, one crisis over. One relief to unknot some of the screaming tensions that had been eating at him for days.

In other circumstances it might have been hard to keep the smile from his face. His friend, it seemed, would live a little longer.

Now all they had to do was wait for those Eagles to come home!

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Planetary Expedition Arcobelano Eagle Six, Captain Alan Carter, commanding  
Year 6 – 2161 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

The steady pounding of the rain was beginning to get on Carter’s nerves. He had never known such a storm – not even after the devastating effects of the nuclear strikes that had done such damage to Earth’s weather systems back in the eighties. It had raged for a full twelve hours, imprisoning them in a cramped and damp Eagle, struggling to dry off after their forced walk, and barely able to hear each other speak over the drumming of the rain. Carole had done her best to make her patients comfortable, but Verdeschi had only briefly recovered consciousness, and Rothsburg – while not complaining – was wrestling with obvious pain and distress.

At least Andy, the biologist, and Harvey, the geologist, had found some occupation in studying the local phenomena, but the picture they’d been painting of the local climate, ecology, and meteorological system was not an encouraging one. After several hours of muttered discussion about tectonic tides, electromagnetic generation, and wind scour, Carter had retreated to the relative quiet of the Eagle beak to watch the night torn by the storm and hopefully snatch a little sleep.

It was the waiting that was so hard. 

Carter was a man of action, someone who preferred to be doing something – certainly doing something more productive than sitting, watching fat globules of rain turn the observation ports into a running river. He had begun to curse the day they had ever seen this particular planet. A promising hope, indeed! Even if they had decided to initiate Operation Exodus on the strength of a flourishing ecosystem, drinkable water, and possible food supplies – what kind of future would it have offered them? The planet, being so young, would lack stores of hydrocarbons, and the discharge from the rings would render any long range communications inoperable. He would be willing to bet that – within a few generations – the Alphans would have dwindled to a few isolated pockets of barbarism, with garbled memories of the magic of technology and some weird myth about having been descendants of the moon.

It was not a prospect he enjoyed conjouring.

Maya stepped through from the passenger module, her thoughts clearly preoccupied with more immediate issues.

“Is there any sign of it clearing?” she asked, and Carter shook his head.

“I never knew there could be so much rain in the air all at once. Must be local monsoon season – or something.”

“There’s a body of water lying directly under the rings – the electrical discharge creates vapourisation, which in turn creates the clouds. The clouds rise over the warmer land mass – and the moisture particulates and is precipitated as they move away from the area of charge. It’s a simple weather pattern,” she sighed, moving slide into the co-pilot’s couch so that she could stare forlornly out of the observation port. “The water will fall, the clouds will disperse – and then, a few days later … it will probably all start again.”

He crooked a wry smile. “Yeah - when the next innocent flyboy sticks a huge hunk of metal into the middle of everything. No … no, you’re probably right,” he conceded, responding to her sideways glance and the elegant lift of her distinctive eyebrow. “Something would have set it off sooner or later. It may even flare up pretty regularly. But this bad? This quickly? Take it from me - this one’s on us. But it’ll pass. And we’ll be out of here long before the next one starts thundering. I’ll make sure of that.”

Maya nodded slowly, her eyes still fixed on the descending rain. “I have been reviewing the systems checks,” she said. “This Eagle has lost approximately 20.62 percent efficiency in all systems.”

On another occasion he might have joked about that _approximately._ Point 62 of a percent sounded like a pretty precise measurement from where he was sitting. But he was chilled from his earlier walk, he was still damp from his soaking, and he had wounded crew and a handful of lost lambs to take care of. He only found sufficient energy to heave a heartfelt sigh.

“I know. It’s within parameters, but - it’s going to be a long flight home.”

She found a haunted smile from somewhere, acknowledging his words – and her confidence in his ability – with gentle understanding. “Better a long flight,” she said, “than no flight at all. Besides,” she added, “It’s good to have a home to go to.”

He glanced out of the window again, seeing lightning dance in the distance and hearing the incessant pounding of the rain. Somewhere – above all the chaos of the storm - Alpha would be waiting anxiously for their return, a warm and welcome refuge from the terrors of an overwhelming universe. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, wondering just when exactly a fragile shout of defiance to the demands of Fate – a cluster of prefabricated buildings on an airless world and the determined burrowing that lay beneath them – had become _Home._

Then Carole appeared in the doorway behind them both, with cups of steaming coffee on her tray, and a warm and loving smile on her face, and he broke into a matching smile of his own.

_Oh, yeah,_ he remembered fondly, _**that’s** when …_

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazerus: Year 6 – 2161 days Post Breakaway.  
Personal Log Entry: John Koenig, Commander.

* * *

Koenig paused at the iso-ward door, momentarily hesitant, recalling his last visit with a sense of disquiet. Then he straightened his shoulders self-consciously, mastering his anxiety with the ease of long practice and strode into the outer room with a determinedly cheerful expression on his face.

The ward was empty. 

Well, not _exactly_ empty. Juventus was bustling in the middle of it, stripping sheets and rearranging equipment with a practised hand. But there was no sign of his patient. He looked up as his Commander entered and waved an acknowledgement through the observation glass.

“The Professor is resting in the day-ward, Commander,” he announced, poking his head around the divider and welcoming him with a broad smile. “Doctor Russell thought he might be more comfortable in there. We’ve moved all the lab equipment through to iso-three for the time being, and I’m just clearing up in here. Would you like me to bring you a coffee? I’ll be making the Professor a drink when I’m done here.”

“Uh – thank you, but – no. I won’t be staying long. Not today, anyway. Just a flying visit this time.” 

The orderly nodded, unoffended by the rejection of his hospitality. “No worries, Commander. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you but – a short visit is probably best. He needs his rest.” 

Koenig returned the nod and retreated back to the corridor, finding himself hesitating a second time as he turned towards the relevant door. He dismissed the moment with a wry smile and a small shake of his head, lifting his commlock so he could thumb the activator signal and stride through as the door slide open in front of him.

The day ward was a somewhat less formal affair than the space he’d just left; it lacked the divider and its associated observation area, and the only obvious bank of medical monitors were the ones installed above the head of the bed. The rest of the room looked more like standard quarters than it did a medical ward, with a desk on one side, a pair of easy chairs in one corner, and the bed set up in the middle of everything. The laboratory equipment that had occupied much of the space the last time he’d seen it had all been cleared away, and someone had thoughtfully placed a few decorative pieces to add to the informality of the space. There was one of Evan Morris’ polished stone whales poised at the back of the bedside table, and some of Syed Hasam’s fused glass dishes scattered around, many of them filled with the still fresh blossoms that had arrived with current occupant of the room. 

Bergman lay asleep on the bed, half draped with a sheet, the head of the bed tilted up at an angle, so it was clear he’d been sitting up when exhaustion had overwhelmed him. An active computer display, extended out from the wall behind him, confirmed the suspicion; its surface was dancing with animated images that matched the soaring orchestral music which drifted around the room.

Koenig crossed the room quietly, being careful to balance his stride as he did so. Helena had been slowly increasing the gravity gradient in the isobay, but it was still disconcertingly low. The bay was currently set to around one half gravity, far less than Alpha’s standard Earth gee, but noticeably higher than Luna’s usual sixth. Even if Victor had not been so ill, he would still have been tiring quickly; the human body adjusted well to lower gravity conditions, but it tended to lose muscle mass and associated strength when it did so.

It was going to be a lot harder to adjust _back._

Carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping man, he reached across and dimmed the brightness of the images, turning the volume down a little so that the music faded from listening volume to a quieter, background hum. A sense of soft serenity settled around Koenig’s shoulders and sank into his soul as he did so, easing some of the tensions that haunted him. The weary despair that had joined those tensions the last time he’d looked in on his friend slid away, leaving space for a sense of wonder to creep back and catch at his heart. 

In sleep, Bergman was a fragile, delicate creature, little more than skin stretched over bone. The angles of his face and the dome of his balding skull were sharply defined, accentuated and stark despite the soft camouflage of his now neatly trimmed beard. But he was still familiar, still _Victor,_ in a way that no-one could deny. 

That was the miracle that Koenig could still not quite believe. He’d once likened his command of Alpha to the opening of Pandora’s box – an on-going struggle against disaster and despair, never knowing what the next revelation might be, what the next encounter might bring.

Hope, it seemed, still lingered at the bottom of the box, despite everything. Could still be found at its heart, right where you least expected it.

But, perhaps, just when you needed it _most._

The subject of his scrutiny stirred, not quite waking, but definitely surfacing from deeper sleep. Koenig was painfully reminded of the problem he had managed to create for himself; although keeping the miracle a secret - while the possibility of it not turning out to be one after all - had seemed sensible at the time, it had made disclosing it … extremely difficult. As Bergman recovered his health and his strength – and Koenig had no doubts on that score now, even if it was going to be a long and carefully journey – then they would have to find a way to reveal his survival to the rest of Alpha. Many of whom, he had no doubt, would be as sceptical as Helena had been when they’d first found the remains of his helmet deep in the plant’s domain.

It would wait, he knew – wait, at least, until the Eagles had safely returned from their explorations, and he would be in a position to decide the status of Operation Exodus. If that turned out to be a no-go, then it would wait a little longer still – perhaps until the man concerned was strong enough to cope with the inevitable attention he would receive. Perhaps long enough, Koenig realised with a mixture of anxious affection and concern, to be certain … to be sure that, along with his health, he would regain his clarity of mind.

“John,” Victor acknowledged lazily, blinking open tired eyes and focusing them with delighted recognition. Doubt followed – just a wary hint of it – and Koenig reached to clasp his shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Hello, Victor. How are you feeling?”

A bony hand lifted to affirm the warmth of their contact, and its owner returned the smile with gratitude. “Tired,” he admitted. “But … happy. I think. Sit,” he suggested, pointing at a nearby chair. “Talk to me. If you’ve time.”

“I’ve a little to spare,” Koenig admitted, letting go of his friend’s shoulder to snag the chair and drag it close. He sat, bring their heads to a common level. The eyes that watched him – sunken a little in their sockets and shadowed with recent, and probably not so recent, experiences – held both curiosity and puzzlement in their familiar depths. 

“Tell me,” Bergman asked, the soft timbre of his voice unmistakable even after five long years, “how long ..? I – I’ve been trying to figure it out, but … I must have lost track of time, somewhere. Somehow. Hard to count the passing of days when they don’t. Pass, that is.”

“I suppose it is.” Koenig considered his expression with sympathy. Helena had told him to be honest – to answer direct questions and keep nothing back – but also to avoid volunteering too much, too soon. Unasked questions could wait: simple curiosity would be a good sign. Panic and confusion would not.

“It’s been a long time, Victor. Five years, more or less.”

Bergman’s eyed widened; if it were possible, he might have paled. His brows drew together in a purse of puzzlement and his focus turned inwards as he clearly struggled to make Koenig’s statement match with his memories of events. It was painfully obvious that they didn’t.

“Five _years?_ ” he questioned, faintly.

Koenig nodded, watching the mental struggle with some concern. After a moment or two, Bergman gave up trying, letting the information sink in and accepting it. Or trying to, at least.

“Five years,” he repeated slowly. “And Alpha still on her wild ride, her one-way ticket to nowhere in particular, hmm?”

Koenig’s grin was involuntary; the succinct statement was so typically _Victor_ – and somehow managed to sum up the entire crazy experience they’d been living through ever since the Moon had left Earth orbit.

“’Fraid so. A lot has happened though, since …”

“Since I died?” The interruption was quietly amused. “I remember that,” Bergman went on, smiling at Koenig’s momentary discomfiture. “Falling into darkness – and waking in Paradise … except,” he sighed, “Paradise is supposed to be free of pain, isn’t it? There was soft light, and sweet air, and a lot of pain. To begin with, anyway. She was … concerned about it …” His voice tailed off. His eyes had gone distant, his attention retreating into memories that Koenig had no hope to follow. 

“Victor?”

The moment passed; Bergman blinked, drew in a focusing breath, and frowned at his company, making an effort to regain the threads of their conversation. “Has it really been five years?” he asked.

“Long ones.” Koenig admitted warily, watching his friend with some concern. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to – “

“Now, don’t start _apologising,_ John.” Bergman’s interjection was gruff, and he gesticulated with a bony finger, emphasising the request. “Hardly your fault. Time … runs away from us all. Relatively speaking, of course.” That came backed with the hint of an impish grin, and Koenig relaxed a little. _He may sound irrational,_ Helana had said, _but he’s not insane …_

Just – lost, and confused … and probably more than little fearful that what seemed to be reality might turn out to be nothing more than a dream.

“I don’t feel any older,” Bergman considered slowly. “Although I must be, I suppose. There is a little – grey, in your hair, but … not enough to … well, souvenirs of command, perhaps. Trophies of survival?”

“Each and every one,” Koenig agreed with a wry smile.

“Thought so. You’ll have to tell me sometime. When you have time …” The old man sighed. “I expect I have a lot of catching up to do.”

The smile became an affectionate one; Koenig had missed this - and found himself looking forward to more of it; of spending time in conversation with a friend. One who had no fear to speak his mind, and whose mind loved challenge, and discovery, and intellectual debate.

“Not really,” he decided with a soft half-laugh. “I think we’re still trying to catch up with you … Alpha – hasn’t been the same without you. It’s good to have you back.”

Bergman echoed the laugh, taking the compliment the way it was meant – and then lost it in a cough and a gasp for breath.

“Sorry, John,” he muttered, closing his eyes for a moment to let the dizzy spell pass. “For a dead man, I – I’m afraid I’m not very well …”

“It’s alright.” Koenig started to get to his feet, concerned he’d over stayed his welcome. “Just – take your time. Take it easy. You need to rest. I can come back later …”

“No!” The denial held a note of panic. Bergman sat up and grabbed at his arm, fragile fingers closing with unexpected strength. “No – don’t go. Not – not yet.” 

Koenig let himself be pulled closer by the anxious grip. It was easy in the low gravity to shift his half risen weight out of the chair and up against the edge of the bed, so he could sit there, leaning himself against the furniture and offering casual and supportive company, 

“Maybe I can stay a little longer,” he allowed, gently. “Julio said something about bringing you drink? I can wait until he gets here. But I will have to go. I have work to do.”

“I know.” The panic had subsided as quickly as it had flared, dissolving into sheepish embarrassment. The vice like grip on his arm slid away. “I’m sorry, John – I … I’ve just been alone too long …“

“I know.” Koenig said. “But it’s okay. You’re not alone. Not any more …”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Log of Planetary Expedition Arcobelano Eagle Six, Captain Alan Carter, commanding  
Year 6 – 2161 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Alan Carter’s heart was racing as he pulled back on the Eagle’s throttles and felt her lift into the air. The storm had faded into fitful rain, and – with the coming of the planetary dawn – patches of clearer sky had begun to appear above them. He had no way of knowing if this would be a temporary reprieve, whether the upper atmosphere would hold further disturbances, or even if the Eagle would hold together if they encountered any further trouble – but time was wasting, and he wasn’t willing to miss this window of opportunity in the hope of another, some uncertain time ahead.  
Strapped in the co-pilot’s seat, Maya had been tasked with watching the struggle of the damaged machine as its pilot coaxed it from the ground; if she needed to, she’d be in a position to reroute power supplies, or switch to backup systems, but – so far – everything was responding as it should.

Sluggishly, it had to be said, but responding; the lift off was a little shaky, and there was a lurching clutch at everyone’s stomach as the main thrusters fired, but she was soon clear of the ground and rising with determination. Carter aimed the beak at the nearest patch of blue sky, angling to take their flight away from the zone of air beneath the circling rings.

Somewhere behind him, he knew that Carole would be monitoring her patients, probably feeling the faint vibrations of the labouring Eagel through their bones as well as her own. She’d managed to stabilise Verdeschi’s condition, despite being limited by the drugs she had to hand, and she’d be watching him like a hawk, making sure he stayed stable, despite the concussion, and the associated bruising around his brain. Carter would have been keeping his fingers crossed for him, if doing so wouldn’t have made the Eagle twice as hard to fly.

The planet slowly peeled away beneath them, and he gunned the throttles as hard as he dared, watching – as he knew Maya was watching – the distance slowly increase. There was nothing on the commslink but the hiss of static, but he keyed up the transmitter and sent his message anyway, hoping it would break through, hoping that Alpha’s more powerful receivers would be able to hear.

“Alpha, this is Eagle Six. Alpha, do you read? We have suffered minor damage and are transporting injured personnel. Please prepare Med Centre for incoming casualties. The planet we have left is subject to extreme electrical storms, and should be considered dangerous. No further landings should be attempted. This is Eagle Six to Moonbase Alpha. Come in, Alpha. Do you read …”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2161 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Sandra Benes let out a barely concealed squeal of delight as a solitary Eagle appeared on the long range scanners.

“Commander!” she called. “We have an Eagle!”

Koenig dropped the sheaf of papers he’d been reading onto his desk and strode over to join her, staring down at her console with anxious hope.

“Only one?”

She nodded, concentrating on trying to pierce the blanket of static that surrounded the approaching ship. “Communication is still uncertain, Commander,” she reported. “There is something coming through, but it is barely readable.”

Koenig grimaced in frustration. “Let’s hear it,” he ordered. She flicked a switch – and the crackling hiss of the planet’s broadcast flooded Command Centre. Beneath it, Carter’s voice was a jumble of imcomprehensibility.

“…trans…red pers…Centre…casualties … … left…danger …”

Koenig made a chopping motion with his hand; Sandra flicked the switch the other way and the ear splitting crackle was immediately silenced. 

“Well?” he asked generally, and the assembled staff looked round at each other uncertainly.

“Something about casualties – and danger?” someone volunteered from the far side of the room.

“I got that much,” Koenig growled, tugging his commlock from his belt. A flick of his thumb summoned Bob Mathias to its small screen. “Bob? We may have a problem on the way. We have one Eagle inbound instead of two, and a garbled transmission that references casualties. You’d better stand by for the worst. Tell Helena we’ll bring them into pad four …” He stopped and looked up. “How long, Sandra?”

“At current speed, approximately four hours, Commander. But communications should improve as they get closer. We may have full contact long before then.”

“Four hours, Bob. And hopefully more information before they arrive.”

The Doctor nodded. “Roger, Commander. We’ll be ready.”

Koenig cut the link and clipped his commlock back to his belt, looking up and round his team as he did so. Their faces echoed his sense of relief – along with concern, and a little disappointment..

“All right, everyone,” he sighed reluctant to state the obvious, but needing to say it anyway, “stand down on Operation Exodus. Better luck next time.”

Several shoulders slumped, and there were a few crestfallen faces among those with a more jaded, _here we go again expression;_ they all returned to work without complaint, but the sense of disillusionment was almost palpable.

Koenig frowned, well aware that – if his Command crew’s morale had taken a hit - the rest of Alpha would soon be equally discouraged by the news.

“Sandra?” he murmured, leaning forward so they were speaking privately, “Get hold of Joseph Webster, and have him come down to my office, will you? He’ll either be in the mining stores, or one of the rec rooms, I would think.” 

She nodded, and he straightened up, staring thoughtfully at the image of the planetary system on the main screen. Maybe that particular promise had come to nothing – but there was a whole other world still waiting to be explored.

One that was a lot closer to home. 

It was time to put Project Haven back on the active list and into higher gear …


	10. Part Nine: Sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

Extract from the Secondary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazerus: Year 6 – 2162 days Post Breakaway.  
Personal Log Entry: Sarah-Lee Courtney, Resources Officer

* * *

Sarah-Lee Courtney probably had no real business wandering the corridors of Med-Centre that morning, but she felt perfectly justified in doing so. She had a job to do and a reputation to maintain – and she could only satisfy both if she knew that her records were thorough, accurate, and complete. There were one or two loose ends concerning Project Haven that had been puzzling her, and following the threads those loose ends belonged to had brought her out of her office, away from the Quatermaster’s kingdom, and into the relatively unfamiliar passageways that were Dr Russell’s domain.

Several days before, Andi Marling had filed a requisition request, asking for the release of a heavy drill unit container, to be used for the transport of specimens from the Haven Caverns to Medcentre. Nothing wrong with that, of course – there’d been several such requisitions around that time, and Courtney had been carefully checking and recording each batch of specimens that had been brought out of the caverns - both then, and since - making sure that they’d all been properly accounted for. She’d even tracked down a few stray items that had been appropriated _en route_ and ended up in various unexpected places. 

Like the bouquet she’d found being used for a sketching class in rec-room three, or the weird melon sized strawberry that had been sequestered in an otherwise empty freezer at the back of the catering stores. The cook responsible for _that_ was now spending his spare time working with Alpha’s chemists to determine a way to remove the undesirable trace chemicals from their slowly accumulating stores of frozen fruit.

But, while Marling had signed out the heavy duty container – and then signed it back in again, a couple of hours later – Courtney had found no records of what the container had held. Nor did she have a notation of receipt, a signature of acceptance, or any other kind of indication that anything had been delivered in the first place. 

She’d asked Marling – of course – and the miner had laughed and shrugged, and told her it had been just _something the Commander had rescued the day the plant went phut,_ and advised her she should ask Koenig about it – if she really wanted to know.

Well, she did. But she really didn’t want to bother the Commander with what was basically an omission in paperwork. Nor did she particularly want to bother Dr Russell, who might have some idea as to what might have been delivered, given that security had logged the container’s arrival in, and departure from, Med-Centre, both on the same day.

Dr Russell’s findings concerning the plants defensive chemicals were all on file, but they were primarily focused on her findings in the caverns, and her subsequent monitoring of the investigation team. The only link Courtney had found between the medical analysis and any specimens that might have ended up in Med-Centre was a vague summary of some test work which simply confirmed the chemical formulations the cook and Alpha’s chemists had been working on.

She was puzzled, and she was curious. Most of the people who managed to get hold of any of the plant’s materials were singing about it with great enthusiasm. Now that Koenig had authorised the resumption of the work, a great many of them were applying to get hold of more, badgering Webster’s assessment and collection teams with long lists of requirements. She’d been glad she’d been able to sort out the database so that it would be possible to keep track of everything.

Everything, that is, except a heavy duty container’s worth of _something,_ that the Commander had taken personal control of, and nobody had bothered to log once it had arrived in the Medcentre Isobays.

Which was why – in the middle of an otherwise quiet afternoon – she’d decided to wander over to Med-Centre and see if she could throw any light on the matter. Since she didn’t want to bother anyone over something she was sure was merely an oversight – an omission in the paperwork, and more than likely one down to the Commander assuming someone would take care of it, without actually giving anyone the job – she’d gone about it as discretely as she could, taking the lower travel-tube to the service levels and walking through the maintenance tunnels to the secondary elevator so that she could arrive well away from the bustle of the main wards and the doctors’ offices. The return of the Eagle early that morning meant that most of the medical personnel would be busy in the central area, attending the seriously injured – hopefully now settled and being monitored in the primary ward - cleaning up the operating theatre, or running through all the routine tests and checks needed to assess the rest of the expedition’s crew. While she’d probably drop by to visit Carrie Rothsburg later in the day, she didn’t really want to get caught up in all that bustle. She’d just be underfoot, and in the way – and her concerns over a few missing records would hardly be seen as a priority in among all the life and death stuff that would be occupying the medics’ minds.

There was no-one around as she stepped out of the elevator and into the passageway; a few steps took her to the open lobby that sat below what had been a surface access to MedCentre’s upper level before Breakaway. There was still a stairway up in one corner, which led to an upper chamber and a still functional airlock, but the rest of the above-ground area had been locked down and sealed off for years. She still missed being able to stare out at the surface, or up at the stars, whenever she felt like it, but she understood the reasons for retreating underground when they did. These days, she only got to look out through a window on special occasions – _which isn’t today,_ she reminded herself sharply, ignoring the temptation of the rising staircase and the promise of a view of the now retreating star system at the top of it. She’d get into all sorts of trouble if she opened the pressure door it led up to, simply on a whim. Almost as much trouble as she might cause climbing back into the elevator and going _all_ the way down, to the catacombs below.

The entrance to the iso-bays was on the other side of the lobby space, an impressive set of double doors bought and paid for by various sponsors of the Luna Commission – the ones who’d wanted special facilities for their precious long range astronauts, separate from the hoi-poloi of a base primarily constructed to watch over a waste disposal site. Post Breakway, they, and the reception area that lay behind them, were merely decoration for a series of rarely used rooms; extra space on a base where _space_ was hardly at a premium. 

Although she supposed that having an area where individuals could be isolated - should the need arise - had to be worth the minimal upkeep the bays required. Otherwise they’d have salvaged the equipment and locked down the rooms that held it a long time ago.

A quick click of her commlock evidenced the lack of any lock – on the outer doors, at least – and she slipped inside, feeling a little self-conscious as she did so. There wasn’t anything suggesting she shouldn’t be doing this, but the silence that greeted her made her feel like an intruder, like an uninvited guest trespassing on private property.

Silence?

Not quite. Somewhere, close by, there was a faint sound, the hint of music; it was drifting out of the central bay, only to be lost in the mostly unfurnished reception area. Courtney frowned, wondering who might be at work here; was someone working on the specimens she was searching for? The bays could be used for laboratory space, so it was possible …

She crossed the floor, and nearly stumbled as the gradient shift in gravity added an unexpected bounce to her steps. Was that the reason for someone using the bays? The plant’s habitat was only one sixth normal gee, so perhaps they’d thought that a higher gravity environment might damage whatever they were investigating. 

_Or maybe they’re just saving power in here,_ she admonished herself firmly. Speculation was pointless without further data – and it would only take a minute or two to pop her head round the relevant door and ask whoever it was what they were up too. 

_Just for the record …_ She adopted her most professional smile, stepped – carefully – along the corridor, and buzzed for access to the day ward, since that was where the music seemed to be coming from.

The door slid open. Beethoven welcomed her; the sweet, joyful sound of the _Pastorale,_ dancing across the room and awakening long buried memories. Memories of a day spent in a laboratory, not so far from where she currently stood, with agile fingers sketching out equations across a wipe-board, and a warm smile encouraging her to contribute, challenging her to think and to question his work …

She swallowed, hard, pushing the sudden lump in her throat down with determination. Alpha was haunted by any number of ghosts, and a sweet reminder of _that_ one, should be an occasion for a smile, not a sudden shiver of grief. She let the music enfold her, found the smile she was looking for, and moved further into the room, glancing round for clues as to what might be going on.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t laboratory work. There were some of the plant’s blossoms scattered around, most of them carefully arranged in decorative plates and glass vases. But no lab equipment, no chemical containers, no microscope awaiting a specimen slide. Instead there was a bed, the covers thrown back and the pillows plumped as if only just abandoned. There was a tray with a jug and a half filled glass sitting on the beside table – and a book, a real book, folio bound and with hard covers, laid down beside it. The book was open, the reader’s place held by a writing stylus laid across the pages.

She knew almost every book on the base, but she didn’t recognise this one – which almost undoubtedly made it a precious treasure kept safe in a personal collection. She stepped forward almost without thinking, leaning over to read a snatch of the enticing print.

_They will sing that song again, many times tonight …_

There was a noise behind her – the swish of an opening door – and she straightened with sudden embarrassment, realising she’d just been caught prying in something that really wasn’t her business. She waited for the ironic comment, the sharp retort that she probably deserved.

It never came.

Instead a soft, half remembered voice, spoke her name with wary disbelief. A voice that belonged to the music, to the memory. A voice she’d never expected to hear again …

“Sarah-Lee? _Princess?_ ”

She turned. There was a dead man leaning in the doorway to the room’s ensuite. He was far thinner than she remembered, and the neatly trimmed beard was new, but there was no mistaking his eyes, deep set and filled with wonderment. For a moment reality collided with memory; she was five years adrift, hearing words she didn’t want to believe, knowing them to be true.

_He’s gone, Lee. Just – gone …._

Only he wasn’t. He was _there,_ staring at her as if she were a vision, as if she’d been the very last person he’d expected to see. Reality won the struggle; shock followed, knocking breath and balance askew. Her knees crumpled under her and she sank to the support of the bed, only saved from a complete tumble by the gentleness of the lower gravity.

“ _Professor?_ ” Her voice was shaking as much as the rest of her. He frowned with concern and stepped – no, _limped_ – towards her, offering her the support of his hand. She grabbed at it, finding it warm and surprisingly solid. She looked down at the contact in disbelief.

So did he. Just for a moment – and then he broke into a broad and delighted grin. “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with a hint of laughter. She blinked. Took a breath to settle her still shaking frame, and looked up at him with disconcerted wonder.

“You’re – dead,” she accused. His grin grew wider.

“I know,” Bergman said, obviously amused by her reaction. She let go of his hand and found herself edging away, further down the length of the bed – an instinctive retreat she had to force herself to overcome.

It did, however, create sufficient space for him to turn and sit next to her, sinking his weight onto the bed with what looked like decided relief.

“This – “ she decided, talking to herself more than her company, “is ridiculous. This can’t be happening. Even if it is … I shouldn’t be afraid of _your_ ghost. Should I?”

“Oh, I hope not,” he answered, his voice – and expression – concerned. “But I’m not a ghost. At least – I don’t think I am.” The grin half returned, tugging at one side if his lips while the rest of him wrestled with thought and possibilities. The familiarity of the expression turned her heart over. If this was a ghost, it echoed the man with remarkable accuracy. And if it _wasn’t …_

“It’s been hard to tell,” he was saying with an apologetic shrug. “These past few years … Are you – still you?”

The question threw her for a moment. “I – I think so,” she ventured. “Professor?”

“Yes?”

Sarah-Lee Courtney reached down and carefully laid her hand over his, lacing his fingers with her own. There was far too little flesh on his bones, and the eyes that met hers were a little too bright, a little too lined for comfort. But he was there – he was real, and he was utterly, _utterly_ alive. A weight she hadn’t known she carried broke inside her, sliding away like ice in the spring, filling her eyes with tears and her heart with inexpressible joy.

“I don’t know why,” she breathed. “I don’t know how …but – God … it’s good to see you.”

She was crying – tears of wonder and delight, her whole body bubbling with laughter. She was squeezing his hand far too tightly, and he was watching her with eyes filled with familiar wisdom, smiling at her despite his obvious bemusement. 

“It’s good to see you, too,” he told her, reaching for the box of tissues on the bedside table and offering her one with solemn curtesy. She let go of his hand – her grip must have been bruising, but he didn’t seem to have noticed – and took the tissue, using it to dab at her eyes and dry her cheeks a little. He was still watching her, a thoughtful consideration that seemed to be weighing up what he saw and comparing it with what he remembered. “ _Really_ see you” he decided, half under his breath. She didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“So,” she said, hunting around for conversation that wouldn’t turn into inarticulate babbling, “what have you been doing to yourself, Professor? You’re as thin as a wraith …” He was also as white as a sheet, a sudden spell of exhaustion clearly washing over him. “Are you all right? You – you don’t look very well.”

“I’m not,” he said faintly. “Do you mind if I –“ He gestured at the bed, and she hastily got to her feet, giving him room to swing his legs up and lie back into the support of the pillows. “Thank you.”

“Can I get you anything?” she asked with concern. “Some water? A doctor?”

He smiled at that, catching at her hand as she half turned away to seek help. “No,” he said. “I’ll be all right in a minute. I just … Helena says … “ He tailed off, his words lost in a moment of distraction, his train of thought seemingly dissolving into distance and mist.

“Professor?” she prompted, not entirely sure he was still aware that she was there. He blinked, refocusing on her face with a smile of delighted recognition.

“Sarah-Lee. Yes. That’s right. Sorry, Princess, I -uh … where were we?”

She relaxed a little, although her sense of concern remained. “You. Not being well,” she reminded him. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I’m sure. This too shall pass, “ he quoted sagely. “Sit,” he suggested, waving at the nearby chair. “Tell me … tell me what you’ve been up to. While I was - away.”

“While ..?” Her jaw dropped, and she suddenly needed the chair. “You want – all five years? Just like that?”

“Yes,” he said. “Although – highlights will probably do. Ten minute presentation. Five points per slide,” he added, and grinned.

She grinned back. “Well,” she began – and was saved from saying anything more by the opening of the day-ward door.

“Four o’clock, Professor.” Ho Mae-Lin’s voice was cheery as she bustled into the room carrying a laden tray. “Time for – Miss Courtney? Whatever … how did you get in here?”

“Uh – “ Courtney froze, feeling like a kid caught with their hand in a cookie jar. “Through the door? I have clearance,” she added defensively. “All the Quartermaster’s staff have authorisation for the inspection of … public areas ,,?” Her voice tailed off. It might be true, but still …

Nurse Ho’s startled expression softened. Perhaps she’d seen, and understood, he hints of smudged mascara and the evidence of tear tracks – or perhaps it was the way Bergman’s expression had darkened, his frown challenging _her_ challenge, his whole demeanor poised to defend his unexpected visitor. “Well - since you’re here,” she decided, “I’d better get another cup. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She quickly placed the tray on the table by the door, turned on her heel and left, leaving Courtney to offer her company a sheepish smile. Bergman’s frown turned into a look of wry resignation. “John’s being a little – protective,” he said, with the hint of a sigh. “Of me, or of Alpha … possibly both, I suppose. Did she leave the coffee?”

“Yes,” Courtney realised, getting to her feet. “Shall I - ?”

“Would you mind? Thank you. Be careful with the pot. Low gee,” he added, and she nodded, grateful for the reminder. Missteps in low gravity could be funny, but making one with a pot of hot coffee – or even a cup - in your hand would be courting disaster. Now that the initial shock of her discovery was wearing off, there were a whole load of questions beginning to burble for attention at the back of her mind. Where had he been, all these years? Why was he so thin – and so ill? And why the lower gravity environment? 

There was a single cup on the tray beside the pot – along with a small container of pills, a loaded hypo, and a plate of sweetened biscuits. The high-carb fibre ones that pretended to be oatmeal and honey, and tended to be as chewy as cardboard. They were a real treat – despite, or perhaps because of, the challenge of eating them.

She reached for the pot and carefully poured out half a cup of Alpha’s best attempt at makeshift coffee, topping it up with a splash of vat pressed creamer. It was a far cry from the days when she’d snag him a cup from the percolator in the science lab. That had been the real thing, transported up in vaccum packed foils, and brewed half to death over a long working day. Thick and strong, sweetened with a spoonful of condensed dairy.

They’d had proper digestives, and bourbon creams back then – luxuries taken for granted and long since vanished from Alpha’s meagre stores. Someone down in the hydro labs had managed to germinate and start growing a coffee bush a couple of years before, but it wouldn’t really start bearing usable fruit for another three, let alone produce enough to meet Alpha’s needs. Maybe one day …

She sighed, and carried both the coffee cup, and the plate of biscuits back to the man on the bed. “They normally limit the ration on these to three per head,” she told him, watching as he carefully dunked a biscuit into the cup and then bit into the result with relish. “Do you really get six at one go?”

“Twice a day,” he mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs. “But I have a lot of catching up to do. Fruit may be fine, but … a man likes something with substance to it. You know?” 

“If you can call that substance … wait a minute!” His words had collided with her questions; adding them together – along with her reason for being in the iso-bay to begin with – produced disconcerted revelation. “ _Fruit?_ You’re my missing specimens,” she realised. “You were in – and the Commander … oh, my _god._ ” She sank back to the waiting chair, staring at him with wide-eyed wonderment. “You must be the luckiest man in the whole of the moon …”

Bergman had been dunking a second biscuit, watching her work out the puzzle with quiet amusement. He dismissed her conclusion with a self-effacing shrug. “Who can say,” he said. “Was it luck, or destiny that washed Robinson Crusoe up on his deserted island? I _died,_ Princess. I fell into paradise, and it was empty. Nothing but ghosts and memories for company. And _Her,_ I suppose. She sang to me, and I would have danced, but I was twisted, and so lost …”

His eyes had lost their focus; the biscuit was forgotten in his hand. He was staring at something in the far distance, seeing things in memory, recalling experiences no-one would ever share. “The moon's my constant mistress,” he murmured, an odd little smile curling beneath his beard, “And the lonely owl my marrow; the flaming drake and the night crow make …me music to my sorrow …”

“Professor?” Courtney ventured warily. The words were nonsense, but they’d sent a shiver down her spine.

He blinked, refocusing his attention and his thoughts, and broadened the smile into a more familiar expression. “And now,” he concluded, matter-of-factly, “I find myself living on biscuits and measured rations … and every bite is a feast. Because I never thought I’d ever taste anything like this again.”

She returned the smile, relieved to see the moment pass. She had no idea what it must have been like – to be alone, for so long, with no hope or expectation of rescue.

Ho Mae-Lin reappeared with a second cup in her hand. She filled it without comment, passing it to Courtney before handing Bergman his pills, checking the readouts on the monitors behind his bed, and then administering the drugs in the hypo, an imposition her patient endured with a roll of his eyes. Sarah-Lee sipped the coffee as she watched their by-play; it was warm and very welcome, settling some of the after-effects of shock that still echoed through her.

“The Commander wants to speak to you,” the nurse murmured softly as she took the hypo back to the waiting tray. “He’ll be waiting for you in the duty room – when you have a moment?” 

Courtney went a little white. “Thanks,” she murmured back. She gulped down the rest of her coffee, and rose to her feet, trying her best not to look as if she were fleeing the scene. “I have to go now, Professor,” she said, keeping her voice light and her smile warm. “But – I could come back – if you’d like me to?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “I’d like that.” He was clearly drifting towards sleep; his nurse was busy removing empty cups and empty plates, and plumping pillows to help to make him comfortable. He held out his hand to her. “Promise?”

She caught the proffered hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. She wasn’t entirely sure she _could_ promise - but she did, anyway. “I promise,” she said, let go of his hand – and went to meet her fate.

* * *

“What the _hell_ did you think you were doing, Miss Courtney?”

Koenig’s demand was measured, but his eyes were ablaze with fury and his lips were tight with unconcealed disapproval. Sarah-Lee Courtney took a deep breath. “My job, Commander.”

“Your _job..?_ ”

“Yes sir.” She thought the truth was going to be her best defence. She hadn’t really been doing anything wrong, just trying to avoid bothering busy people with much more important matters on their mind. It was her job to keep track of things – if not her, then who else was going to be bothered about an inconsistency in the records? Someone had to do it.

Because, if she didn’t, then one day, one of those ‘inconsistencies’ was going to blow up in someone’s face. It might even be literally. Like a failed seal on a spacesuit helmet …

“You told me you wanted everything that came out of the caverns tracked and catalogued,” she explained, staring at her hands which were clasped in her lap. “There were specimens delivered to these isobays on the day the plant expelled its seeds – and no-one had logged what they were or what was being done with them. I just wanted to …”

“Specimen,” Koenig interrupted softly. She looked up, hearing the shift in his tone, the weary note of a man who carried an entire world on his shoulders. The spark of fury in his eyes had faded, leaving a haunted, slightly troubled look behind.

“Sir?”

He glanced away, his eyes seeking the monitor that showed the fragile figure, lying asleep in the day ward. “Just one specimen, Miss Courtney. The flowers that came with him were – necessary camouflage.” He sighed, and returned his attention to her wary consideration. “It’s all right. I’m not mad at you. Just … circumstance. I should have known this wasn’t something I could keep concealed for long.”

She couldn’t help her puzzled look. Things still weren’t adding up – and she really needed them to. “Pardon my asking, Commander, but – why keep it a secret at all? Surely finding the Professor alive after all this time – “

“I know,” he said, dropping his angular weight into the nearest chair. “But it wasn’t that easy. We weren’t sure we _had_ found him, at first. That it was him, and not – some ghost or vision, or … something the plant had created to distract us. And even when we were certain, we couldn’t be sure he’d survive. You’ve seen him, Lee. Talked to him. He’s a sick man. Weak, confused, distracted and suffering from years of depravation. He’s been living in one sixth gee – coping with a badly healed, broken leg …and five years of exposure to addictive, mind altering chemicals … The plant saved his life,” he concluded bleakly. “We weren’t so sure we could do the same.”

His shift from official formality to the casual use of her personal name allowed her to relax; they were speaking now as friend to friend, not Commander to subordinate, and, as such, she could respond to the quiet pain in his voice with a sympathetic smile.

“Tough call,” she said, wondering if she would have done the same – would she have chosen to protect others from that potential for grief? Or shared the joy, knowing that it might turn to dust and ashes at any moment? She didn’t know – but she could empathise with the Commander’s need to make that decision, and to bear the burden that might follow, whichever way fate fell. “But – to have him _back_ – even if only for a little while …”

Koenig’s smile was a haunted one. “I know,” he said. “It hits me every time I see him. What we lost. You were – one of his protégés, weren’t you? Student first, then a colleague?” 

She nodded. “He was – good to me, Commander. Good for me, too – challenging, always inspiring more. I’m here – on Alpha - because he thought I could contribute. And because he made me believe he was right.”

That widened the smile, banishing some of its anxious undertones. “Me too,” Koenig admitted, clearly amused by memories she didn’t share – but could imagine, knowing the man they discussed. “I don’t want this getting out,” he told her softly. “Not yet. Helena still has doubts – the stresses of withdrawal, his fragile state … we could lose him, even now. And even if we don’t – she’s talking months, maybe longer, for recovery and rehabilitation. He needs time, and he needs care … and that includes not being overwhelmed with well-meaning well-wishers. But he might benefit from a little… company. You think you can help with that?”

“I’d love to,” she said. “And, don’t worry. Commander. I’m very good at keeping secrets when I need to. I even know where the last of the chocolate’s been stashed. And _no-one's_ getting that out of me.”

He laughed at that, nodding his thanks with gratitude. “Good, glad to hear it. Just – pop in to see him from time to time. Talk to him, but don’t – pressure him. He’s got out of the habit of company …”

She shivered a little at what that implied. Five years, alone. Never expecting rescue. Never expecting to see anyone, ever again … “I’ll bear that in mind,” she promised. She half rose to leave, then paused as a thought struck her. “Commander?”

“Yes?”

“When you said – you had … someone in mind? For Project Haven? Did you mean ..?”

She glanced across at the monitor, and the man it displayed, and Koenig grinned – a suddenly boyish expression that spoke of warmth and mischief, of promises and possibilities - and the rekindling of a hope long thought lost. “Run along, Miss Courtney,” he ordered with amusement. “We both have work to do. Oh, and – uh -” he added conspiratorially, “by the way - if you _do_ know where there’s some chocolate? You have my permission to sneak him a piece. He’s missed it.”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2163 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Carter kept his report short and to the point, which Koenig appreciated. He’d provided a brief account on his return, but – now that he’d rested and had a little time to recover – he was able to present the findings from the expedition with slightly more objectivity than he had the day before. His Commander listened gravely, picturing the events in the back of his mind as the pilot described them. Maya’s sombre nod served to confirm some of the tale as it unfolded - but Koenig had seen the damage that the Eagle had sustained, and had watched the casualties being taken to MedCentre with grim comprehension. He knew that the decision to stand down on Operation Exodus had been a good one: that fate had said, once again, not this time, and that they were going to have to live with it.

In the past, he might have greeted that thought with bleak despair. It was getting harder and harder to be disappointed by an unforgiving and indifferent universe. But this time – _this_ time, while the promise of the planet had turned out to be false hope, Alpha had been blessed by a miracle - or two. Knowing that made it much easier to file the outcome of the expedition under ‘lessons learned.’

Even so … he nodded as Carter finished his report, and listened as Maya offered her own observations on events. He occasionally wondered why he’d never managed to harden himself sufficiently not to feel that tug of cold despondency in his stomach whenever a mission turned out like this one – but something inside him still had room for hope, and it still sat heavily on his heart whenever that hope was left unfulfilled. 

“Well,” he sighed once Maya finished speaking. “Helena tells me that Tony’s going to be okay, and while Rothsberg may need some recovery time, it looks as if there’ll be no permanent damage. What about the Eagle, Alan?”

“Which one?” Carter asked – a rhetorical question at best, although he should probably have expected the hint of bitter irony that backed it. Losing an Eagle was never easy, since they represented a huge investment in time and resources – and every one of them Carter’s pride and joy. “Sorry, Commander,” the pilot apologised immediately, realising he’d probably over stepped the mark. “Eagle Six is reparable – most of what’s needed is component replacement, and the little bit of custom work is primarily cosmetic. Losing Eight’s another matter though – there are still two frames up on the jigs to replace Sixteen and Twenty-two. We can’t start anything more until they move off the jigs and on to fitments. “

Koenig nodded, thinking about the implications – and the bottlenecks that Apha’s limited facilities inevitably created. At least there was no lack of raw materials …

“I think,” he said eventually, “that we should consider expanding our hanger facilities. Add at least another jig. Maybe two …”

Carter snorted. “Nice idea, John, but – we don’t have room for that. We’d have to carve out a whole new hanger, and that would take months – even if we had the manpower in the first place.”

“Not necessarily,” Koenig said. “Not if we had natural caverns to work with.” He flicked a switch, summoning up an image of the broken landscape that had concealed the surface entrance to the plant’s domain. “Alan – I want you to run a full aerial survey of the rock formations above the Haven caverns. Correlate your findings with Webster’s internal surveys, and let’s find out if there’s anywhere suitable on the edges of the plant’s system to site a secondary hanger – or two. Maybe there’s a crater we can utilise, or an area where we wouldn’t have to flatten too much to put in a launch pad. You gave me an idea, Alan – and I want your opinion on it.”

Carter leaned forward, his expression wary, but interested. “Fire away, John.”

“You said we could hide the main seal over the central cavern. Keep it concealed from passers-by. That made a lot of sense. What if we made that a primary requirement for the whole of Project Haven? What if we aim to create an independent system – a genuine Haven that supports, but is not directly part of Alpha? Somewhere that could be not just sealed, but _concealed_ , if – when - we came under attack. We know Alpha’s surface buildings make us a target, even if we’ve burrowed a little deeper under them than we did originally. What if we could send the children to safety in a hidden complex away from that target? A world of its own – linked to, but not dependent on Alpha?”

“A second base?” Carter frowned at the concept. “We’ve hardly enough personnel to man this one. I can see some of the advantages, but …”

“Not a base,” Koenig considered, trying to find the words to articulate his idea. “Maybe a suburb – a garden – a farm … I don’t know. It’s just the germ of an idea at the moment. There’s a lot of work to be done down there, and this would add to it, but – if we stick to the principle of a self-sufficient system … power, services, living space, hangers … a little at a time, an organic, not a predetermined development – we could build something down there that will support and protect us – and the next generation, and even the one after that, if need be … Operation Exodus is always going to be a gamble. We may – one day – find that perfect planet, in range long enough to take advantage of it, and one nobody else has claimed first – but until we do, why don’t we start using the one we’ve got? To create a place of safety. A _home._ ”

Carter’s frown had become a pensive one: he mulled the idea over, not looking entirely convinced. “It sounds good in theory, John, but – well, you’d need some kind of genius to co-ordinate a project like that. Somebody you’d be willing to give final sanction to. Someone – someone you’d be prepared to make master of the place much the same way as you’re Commander here. Where are you going to find someone like that? I’d work on the thing, but I wouldn’t want to take it on wholesale. Would you, Maya?”

Maya had been echoing the pilot’s frown, but the question lifted sudden understanding into her eyes. She shook her head, refusing the offer, even as Carter half made it. “No,” she said slowly, sharing a look with Koenig that acknowledged his plan with a note of respect. “I wouldn’t. But I think the Commander has someone else in mind.”

Carter’s gave her a very puzzled look – one that he turned on Koenig, asking the obvious question with a lifted eyebrow. Koenig merely smiled. “Later, Alan,” he said. “Let’s just start with that survey shall we? Find out if any it is possible before we start making concrete plans.”

* * *

Extract from the secondary Data Files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Chief Security Officer, Anthony Verdeschi: Year 6 – 2163 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Verdeschi stirred and woke, drifting up from slumber to shift, uncomfortably, on sensitive skin. The Medical ward which sheltered him was dark, only the dim flicker of active monitors sending the barest of glimmers across the room. Rothsburg had been moved out to the recovery ward earlier that evening, so the space she’d occupied was now completely dark; he should have been alone with the monitors, lying in splendid isolation, and drifting in the haze of painkillers that sheltered him from his headache and had allowed him to snatch some healing sleep.

_Something_ had woken him; he turned his head – carefully – and found a shadowed figure leaning over a bed in the far corner of the room. A bleary blink brought the shapes into focus and he relaxed, recognising both the seated figure and the patient whose hand he so tenderly cradled, there in the dark.

Maxymiew had arrived in Medcentre with Angie just as Rothsburg was being transferred to the outer wards. She’d been white as a sheet, and trembling with fear, both of them panicking over the health of her unborn child. Dr Mathias had steered them into an examination room, making soothing reassurances. He must have found something to concern him, since Angie was now tucked into the corner bed, surrounded by active monitors. Maxymiew’ sturdy Slavic shoulders were hunched as he kept vigil at his lover’s side.

“Just a little longer,” he was murmuring, his voice a mere whisper in the quiet room. “Hold on just a little longer, my love, and I will take you to a place where you and I can breathe again. Somewhere where our child can grow and be strong. Just a few more preparations and I will be ready. We will be together, Angie. You and me, and the baby. We will be safe. We will be free. I will come for you, I promise.”

He glanced round, as if sensing he was being observed. His eyes flashed in the darkness, catching the light from the monitors that held their own vigil over Verdeschi’s head. Then he turned back, dipping to place a soft kiss on the sleeping woman’s cheek and rest a gentle hand on her distended stomach. “Soon,” he whispered, then hastened away, leaving only the brief flash of light from the corridor to mark his exit.

Verdeschi risked another blink; stars were dancing in front of his eyes, and the words he’d overheard made little sense to his fuddled brain. Had he been better focused, and less distracted by pain, he might have found reason for concern in that late night visit, in the words that spoke of preparations and promises. As it was, he merely sighed and let the incident slide from his mind; he was sure that the doctors were taking care of Angie, sure that her health and that of her baby would be given every attention. Right then, he had his own health to worry about. That, and the softly bubbling brew which was currently sitting in his quarters. His latest batch had been almost ready to decant from his brew kettle when he’d left it, and by now it would be working overtime.

_Maybe tomorrow,_ he considered fuzzily, then closed his eyes, seeking refuge from his general discomfort in sleep. _Or the day after that …_

Silence returned to the shadowed ward. His dreams may have been filled with lightning – but if they were, he did not remember them.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Resource Team Omicron: Project Haven survey, Year 6 - 2164 days Post Breakaway

* * *

Webster sat back against the curve of a large root and unscrewed the lid of his flask, inhaling a deep breath of the savoury scent that wafted out of it. “Never thought I’d be taking time out for a picnic again,” he remarked, sharing the thought with his company. Marling, perched a short distance away on a much smaller root, glanced up from her inspection of her ration box, and grinned.

They were sitting in one of the many subsidiary caves – a small affair, no more than a few hundred feet across – paused, for a moment, in their careful search and survey work so that they could enjoy a well-earned bite of lunch. They’d left Shewell in charge of the clean-up team back in the peripheral caverns, had plunged deep into the plant’s domain, skirting the central cavern to avoid the tangled mess left after the seedpods’ escape, and headed out in search of the far side of the complex. They hadn’t reached it yet, which was both a good thing, and a bad. Good, because it implied the caverns were even more extensive than they’d first thought, and bad, because it meant walking miles.

Which, even in one sixth gee, was proving to be demanding exercise.

“I spoke to Dr Russell, this morning,” Webster was saying. “She says the Professor’s showing signs of improvement. Early days yet, but – she sounded hopeful.”

“Yeah?” Marling tugged a protein cake out of her box and bit into it with relish. “Good. I’m glad about that. I always did kinda like him.”

“Yeah?” Webster lazily kicked out at a nearby stem, showering her with a flurry of crimson flower petals. “Close, were you? Come on – you hardly knew him.”

“Don’t need to know someone to like ‘em, Jo. Besides,” she added pointedly, “if it weren’t for _him,_ none of us would have made it this far. _Point_ -” She ticked them off on her fingers. “He helped invent the gravitic generator, which made Eagle flight possible, and living on the Moon a whole lot more comfortable than it could have been. He helped install them when Alpha was built – including solving the ‘why are we getting smushed in the Travel tube’ problem. And he finagled that gravitic forcefield thing when we went through that black hole, remember? I like not being squashed into a flat pancake. If I were,” she concluded with a wry grin, “I wouldn’t have Yui. So … I got a lot to be grateful for. So do you.”

“Well, if you put it that way …” Webster smiled, kicking at the flower stem again. Marling lifted her hands and hastily waved the drifting petals away from her open ration box. She shot him an exasperated look, and he laughed. “You may get a chance to know him a little better soon,” he told her, taking a long swallow of soup. “This is good … so glad they found a way to filter out the joy-stuff from the … hey,” he realised, “wonder if the Ariel mushrooms have any connection to the plant? I mean – mind altering mushrooms, found growing on the Moon …”

It was Marling’s turn to kick at a stem, sending yellow and orange petals swirling. Webster had to pick one out of his mug.

“Know him better?” she prompted. “You know something I don’t?”

“Yup.”

“ _Jo…_ ”

“Okay, okay.” He held up a placating hand. “The Commander’s going to ask him to lead on Project Haven. When he’s well enough. And when he is … we’ll be working for him. Us, and all the other idiots who’ve volunteered to traipse around this place.”

“All eight of us. Oh – and Maya doing some of the science stuff..” She threw him a sceptical look. “That’s still not going to get us very far.”

“Eight in the survey teams, ten per rota on clean-up – and all the rest of Alpha as soon as they get a chance. People will be falling over each other to help out down here,” he said. “Once we’ve found all the weak spots and made sure the place isn’t going to be leaking atmosphere.”

“Which still needs filtering,” she pointed out, wryly. “Even if the plant isn’t manufacturing the stuff anymore, the air’s filled with euphoric dust. Isn’t it?”

Webster shrugged. “It breaks down, apparently. Degrades pretty quickly, Dr Russell said. A few more weeks, and we can stop taking the anti-happy pills.”

Marling frowned. “That’s – good, right? I mean – if there’s no danger of getting high just wandering around … Damn it,” she realised. “That means _everyone’s_ gonna be charging around down here. The Professor won’t have a project team. He’ll have a stampede!”

“I hope not.” Webster swallowed the last of his soup and twisted the lid back onto his flask. “Besides – I think it’s going to be a privilege to work down here – something you have to earn. You’ll see. Hancock and his flaming sword are going to go on guarding the gates of paradise – and the only way through them will be a willingness to work, and a heartfelt promise to respect the place. No tourists, and no freeloaders. Well,” he allowed, “maybe a few tourists. Once we open the botanical gardens, and set up the climbing wall …”

Marling kicked her stem again – a little harder this time. “Jo Webster,” she declared as he re-emerged from the resulting storm, “you are an _idiot._ Climbing wall, huh? I bet the kids are going to love that …”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Lazerus: Year 6 – 2164 days Post Breakaway.  
Personal Log Entry: Dr Helena Russell

* * *

“I’m _bored._ ” Jackie Crawford made his declaration sound like a personal affront; he followed it by sitting himself down right in the middle of the nursery playroom, and crossing his arms with grumpy determination. Carole Irwin – duty doctor for the day – put her hands on her hips and stared at him in perplexity.

“Have you finished your lessons for today?” she asked gently.

The answering nod was a sulky one. “I hate lessons,” he muttered, turning his head and refusing to meet her eyes. “Books are _boring._ ”

The ones he was reading probably were; Helena sighed, watching her colleague as she tried her best to engage with the boy. Alpha was struggling to entertain him. There was no-one on the base with much experience on teaching children and, while they had a complete library to hand – a much valued store of human literature stashed in the computer banks – there had been a great many argument over what might be ‘suitable’ for a five year old child learning to read. He was a bright child, and he’d grown tired of picture books by the time he was four. His mother had been finding him much loved literature from her own childhood, but the ones best loved were still a little beyond his age range. And the child himself had not yet really identified what fascinated him the most. He liked dinosaurs, and spaceships, and he loved the expeditions he made to the hydroponic labs and the nutrient tanks, and he’d even helped out in the mushroom farms once or twice – but keeping him _interested_ was proving to be a difficult task.

“Do you want to play games with computer?” Carole was clearly clutching at straws now – watching over the babies was a full time job and she would have little time to spare to entertain the older child. But it was late in the afternoon shift and – apart from the babies themselves - the nursery was practically deserted. It would be bustling before and just after the shift change, off duty staff arriving to either deliver, or collect their respective children. Helena had crept in early to feed Michael: they’d realised early on that breastfeeding mothers needed to stagger their feeding schedules so that the nursery staff weren’t trying to cope with a whole slew of hungry babies all at once. 

“Played all the games.” Jackie was still whining. His pout suggested that he knew he was being bad, but his mood – and the reason for – were sufficiently frustrating to make him act out. He was only five years old, after all.  
Helena carefully burped Michael, cleaned up his spittle and rearranged her clothing, watching the byplay between doctor and child with quiet amusement. She’d been having a similar – if less tantrum driven – conversation less than an hour before. Unlike Jackie, who was mostly bored because he wanted attention he wasn’t getting, she knew that her patient had every right to utter his complaint.

Because _bored_ was a condition Victor Bergman probably had very little familiarity with – although it was entirely possible he’d become much better acquainted with it over the past five years. 

Jackie … Jackie was a problem, and was going to become a much greater one if they didn’t find a way to deal with his situation soon. He was surrounded by adults, many of whom had little experience of dealing with young children, and it would be some time before any of the others in his generation were old enough to join in his games. He might even have grown out of them by the time they were. All of which made him a very solitary child – and occasionally a very difficult one.

She was carefully tucking Michael into the curve of her arm and settled his weight against her hip – when an idea struck her. It was an out of left field, _where did that come from_ , idea, but it was ridiculously obvious, and it appealed to her sense of efficiency. If you had two people whose basic complaint was that no-one had time to entertain them …

“It’s all right, Carole,” she called, walking across to join her. “Leave Jackie to me.”

Carole Irwin smiled at her with decided relief. She was still getting her head round nursery duty and she found Jackie’s phases of intractability difficult to deal with. She may have graduated from Nurse to Doctor since Alpha had begun its crazy journey to nowhere in particular, but Child Psychology was a whole new area of expertise.

“Want to talk a walk with me, Jackie?” Helena asked, holding out her free hand to the boy. The sulky expression became a wary frown.

“Walk where?” he queried, a sudden spark of hope rising in his eyes. She smiled.

“It’s a surprise. You like surprises, don’t you?”

He considered this for a moment, then scrambled to his feet, petulance instantly forgotten. “Out of the nursery?” he asked. She gave him a solemn nod and held out her hand again.

“Come on.” He took it gravely, every inch a somber and dutiful child – then half turned and shot a cheeky grin of triumph at Carole Irwin’s back as the two of them passed through the nursery door.

Helena suppressed a smile at his antics, knowing better than to draw attention to them. “Can you keep a secret, Jackie?” she asked instead.

He trotted along beside her, happy now that he had the attention he’d wanted, even if hadn’t know that he wanted it. “Dunno,” he shrugged, his expression puzzled. Clearly no-one had ever asked him that before. “Must I?”

She paused to crouch down beside him, drawing him in closer with amused conspiracy. “Just for a little while,” she said. “I’m going to take you to meet someone. Someone very important, who’s been very sick. And no-one knows that he’s here except me, and the Commander, and one or two others who’ve been helping us look after him. So it’s very important that you don’t tell anyone where you’ve been. Or who you’ve met – at least, not until the Commander says you can. You understand? It’ll be our secret. A special secret, just between us.”

The boy stared at her with round eyes, overawed at being offered something quite so special that only he and the Commander and the Head of Med Centre would know about. “What about Mom?” he asked, and she smiled.

“I’ll explain it to your mother,” she promised gently. “And then you can tell her all about it. But no-one else. All right?”

He nodded slowly, still trying to take it all in. “Is he – alien?” He sounded excited at the thought. “Like Maya?”

Helena shook her head, rising to her feet and offering him her hand again. Michael burbled a little protest as she resettled him, but he quickly fell back into a semi-doze. “He’s an old friend. An Alphan. But he’s been away … you have met him before, but you won’t remember that. You were only a little older than Michael when … well, it’s a long story. As I said, he’s been very sick, and he tires easily – but he’s like you. He’s lonely and a little bored – and I don’t have a lot of time I can spare him. But you do. Will you keep him company? It would help me a lot. The Commander, too. Would you mind? I need someone responsible to keep an eye on him.”

Jackie’s eyes were wide. “Me?” 

“Well, I’m too busy, and the Commander’s on duty at this time of day. So you’re the obvious choice. Because now you’re in on the secret. Aren’t you.”

His mouth dropped open - and then he nodded, an eager, _that made sense_ nod that came with an excited smile. Helena smiled back, quietly hoping that she hadn’t just made a serious mistake.

She didn’t think she had. It was quite simple when you stopped to think about it. Bergman’s current mental state wasn’t that far removed from that of the child by her side. His attention span was short, he was easily distracted, and he was given to sudden and abrupt changes in mood that could be a little disconcerting. Some of that was chemical, of course. A second, if far less threatening, withdrawal attack the night before had left him in a dark despair that had been difficult to dispel. Young Crawford would not over pressure him, would not force him to react or respond in ways that his still slightly unstable condition struggled to cope with. As for Jackie - well, being part of the ‘secret’ would help make him feel important and needed, and he – for once – would have someone to talk to who’d be able to follow the off-skew logic of a child. Someone who would be willing to be his friend, and not just another adult who didn’t have time for him.

Helena paused in the iso-bay atrium, giving Jackie a chance to adjust to the lowered gravity. The boy jumped around with great delight, manging not to fall over his feet, and quickly learning to take small and measured steps in order to stay balanced. She rocked Michael gently while she watched Jackie’s antics, giving him a similar chance to adjust. She’d realised, stepping into the atrium, that she probably should have left her son behind, but it was far too late to do anything about it. A little time spent in lower gee wouldn’t hurt either child, but Michael was a little too young to have the reason for his shift in weight – and the associated shift in experiencing the world – explained to him.

She suspected that Bergman might have fun explaining it to Jackie …

They found the Professor lying on his back on the day bed, surrounded by Wagner and staring morosely at the ceiling. The attack the night before had exhausted him, undoing much of the improvement he’d achieved since the previous episode. He was recovering, but he was still very weak and progress was going to be slow. Similar setbacks were inevitable. It could take weeks, maybe months to restore the natural balance of his metabolism; his body was still wrestling with the plant’s subtle poisons, fighting free of five years of slow accumulation.

Jackie’s eyes were wide as he followed Helena into the room, his eagerness overtaken by a sudden flare of shyness. He pressed in close to her side, peering warily round her as he assessed – what to him – was the first stranger he’d ever met.

“Victor?” she called softly. “I’ve brought someone to see you.”

Bergman turned his head reluctantly, disturbed by the intrusion into his private misery. There was a long pause as he took in the sight that awaited him; the woman with a child cradled in her arms, and the boy, peeking shyly from behind her. The music swelled to its climax unnoticed and died away into silence.

The man on the bed was wide eyed and pale with shock.

“Jackie?” he hazarded. Then with questioning confidence: “Jackie _Crawford?_ ” Helena nodded, dropping her free hand to tousle at the boy’s hair, and Bergman slumped back, breathing out a weary, slightly pained sigh. “Five years,” he reminded himself, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the reality of it sink in. “It really has been _five_ years …”

Jackie’s hands were clenched in the fabric of Helena’s skirt; he glanced up at her, then back at the man in front of them. “Are you – “ he began warily, bit briefly at his lower lip, then asked his question in a breathless rush. “Are you the old man in the moon?”

He pressed himself back against Helena’s leg as soon as the words left his mouth. She didn’t know whether she should laugh or cry. _Out of the mouth of babes …_

Bergman was looking at the boy with puzzlement. His mouth opened. Shut. A frown creased across his forehead.

“Am I ..?” he turned the question over in his mind … and broke into a _very_ broad grin, chuckling softly as the aptness – and absurdity – of the idea, triggered the first genuine moment of laughter Helena had heard from him since his return. “Yes,” he decided, struggling for the deeper breath he didn’t have. “ _Yes._ That’s exactly who I am.” His glance shared his delight at the idea with Helena, who smiled back with equal amusement. The laugh sounded more effort filled than she liked – but it was good to hear it, all the same.

“Now then, Jackie,” she said authoritatively, “ _this_ is Professor Bergman.” She eased the boy away from her side, pressing her hand to the small of his back and encouraging him to move forward. “I want you two to get to know each other. Victor – I’m sure you remember Jackie. He’s turning out to be a very bright young man. And, like you, he’s a little bored.”

“Is that so?” Bergman wasn’t looking at Jackie’s shy and hopeful smile; he was looking at the child in her arms, at the distracted wave of pudgy fingers as they star-fished from the depths of the blanket to grasp at empty air.

“Yes,” she affirmed gently, then smiled down at her son. “And this is Michael. He’s mine.”

That lifted his eyes from the child to meet hers in a moment of startlement. She watched understanding dawn across his face – and saw it followed by a return of the grin, gentler than before, but just as warm and filled with wonderment. He put out his hand and beckoned Jackie closer, turning to study him with friendly consideration. “Looks like you have a rival, young man,” he said. Jackie’s pouted.

“He’s only a baby,” he said dismissively, then added with pride: “ _I’m _five.”__

“Oh, light years ahead, “ Bergman agreed. He carefully eased himself up into a semi-sitting position. “But you’re still young. Compared with me, that is. Although I’m not as old as the moon. That’s got a few years on both of us.”

“I’m the oldest in the nursery,” Jackie told him. “I’ve even got my own room.”

“Impressive.” Bergman’s glance at Helena asked a question. She answered it with a smile.

“There are two girls and one boy between Jackie and Michael,” she said. “Then five more girls, seven boys – and three more on the way. We were going to stop there – at least until we could excavate a few more rooms, set up some more protein tanks and extend the soy crop, although … that might be easier now. We’ll still have to assess and allocate the resources, of course but – there could be more to come.”

“A second generation.” Bergman sighed. “Or a first, perhaps. I have missed so much, while I was away …” His momentary introspection vanished behind an impish smile. “So – _Michael,_ ” he considered thoughtfully. “Yours and – uh – John’s?”

“Yes,” she admitted, finding herself inexplicably embarrassed at having to do so. That was a part of her life he hadn’t been witness to, even if he’d been there for the beginning of things. He might have caught the start of that distracted dance – the early days of moving from colleague to companion, - but he hadn’t seen the rest of it, hadn’t seen the way their relationship had become something much, much more. 

Michael wasn’t even a major piece of that particular puzzle. He was, however, the very precious and much loved result of it. 

“Long story, Victor,” she said, deciding that the tortuous decisions around whether their community should risk bringing children into it – not to mention Koenig’s stubborn antipathy to the lottery that followed, and the way his anger had melted into astonishment when he'd pulled out the ticket with her name on it – was something for another day. 

“I need to go,” she realised. “Look – can you keep an eye on Jackie for me? Just for a while? I’m afraid we don’t always have the time to give him the attention he needs, and I thought maybe, you could..?”

“Entertain him? Or be entertained?” The potential accusation in the question was disarmed by the twinkle in his eye. He was clearly amused by the idea, and was simply letting her know that he had seen through her subterfuge in an instant. She found a wry smile to answer him. She had to remember that – no matter how fragile he was, or how distracted his concentration might be – this was still _Victor._ Despite everything, his intellect was just as sharp as it had ever been.

The smile appeared to be enough of an answer; he turned back to the boy, focusing on him with thoughtful consideration. “Do you play chess, Jackie?” he asked, dismissing her presence with friendly disregard. Jackie shook his head warily, still uncertain of how to respond to a stranger, even if he seemed to be a friendly one.

“Would you like to learn?”

A pause. The nod that followed held a lot more enthusiasm. Someone – possibly his mother, or some other well-meaning carer – had probably told him he was too young for something as complex as chess. But Victor would be patient; he had long experience of explaining much more complex things to students who’d been far less eager to learn. 

Helena slipped away, leaving the two of them to get better acquainted. She spotted Nurse Ho, working in the monitoring room as she passed, and stepped in to join her, nodding at the scene on the monitor as she did so.

Victor had sent Jackie to collect the box of chess pieces from the side table; Sarah-Lee had brought the set the day before, remembering how the various members of his team had used to maintain a running game in the corner of the astro-lab, back in the days before Breakaway. Helena had approved the idea, feeling that the familiarity of the game could be useful therapy. It had certainly seemed to help him focus while in the young woman’s company; they’d managed to play a couple of games while they’d talked, and although he’d lost the first one, the second had ended in a stalemate. Now he was busy lifting the carved pieces from the box while Jackie went back for the board. 

“That’s right. Just put it here,” he instructed, swinging round the bedside table for that it lay within his reach. “Now you come up next to me – there’s room up here for both of us.”

The child scrambled up to sit facing him on the bed, his eyes wide with delight. He was – as a rule - a very well behaved child, and sitting on a bed in order to play games probably felt decidedly mischievous. Especially when there was an adult inviting him to break what you considered to be rules.

Helena found herself smiling at the sight; at the two heads bent over the chessboard, one dark, the other grey and balding. There were decades between them, and yet … 

“Keep an eye on them,” she instructed the nurse quietly. “But try not to disturb them. Maybe take them in a drink a little later. I’ll be back for Jackie in an hour or two.”

It turned out to be nearly three; she’d returned Micheal to the nursery and then had spent some time discussing Angie Defais’ condition with Dr Vincent. Her child was almost due and they’d been considering the potential impact of inducing an early birth; they’d decided to go on monitoring the situation for a little longer, hoping that nature would intervene before they had to. She’d also taken a moment to check on Verdeschi before she’d left the main wards, pleased to find that he was responding well to treatment and that the effects of his concussion were fading. By the time she returned to the iso-bay, Julio had arrived to relieve Mai-lin; the two of them were in the duty room, smiling at the scene on the monitors.

“Jackie asked him if he’d be his grandfather,” the nurse was explaining with amusement. “Since he didn’t have one. The Professor didn’t think that would work. That his mother might not understand. But he offered to be his honorary Uncle instead. Jackie thought that was a wonderful idea. So do I.”

Helena stepped up behind them both. The monitoring screen showed the day ward to be dimly lit. The table with the chess board had been pushed aside. Two empty glasses stood next to the scattering of chess pieces, and an equally empty plate lay abandoned beside them. Both of the occupants of the room were fast asleep. Jackie was curled comfortably at Bergman’s side, his head resting on a bony shoulder and his arms clasped affectionately around the old man’s neck.

It seemed a shame to wake either of them.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2166 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

The next two days were quiet ones – at least as far as days of Alpha generally went. Koenig spent more time in Med Centre than he usually did – visiting Verdeschi officially, but also taking the opportunity to visit isobay seven, where he was welcomed with delight. Not that Bergman wanted for company; Jackie Crawford was now, with Helena’s assistance, a regular visitor, and Sarah-Lee Courtney had somehow managed to organise her time so that she could drop by to see him at least once a day without raising suspicions from either her work colleagues or her girlfriend.

Such constant attention and company was having a positive affect; Bergman’s health – and concentration – were noticeably improving, although Helena was quick to point out that it was still early steps along a long road to full recovery. In fact, when pressed, she would speak in terms of months, rather than days or weeks. She was conscious that the metabolic balance she’d managed to engineer was a precarious one, and his body needed time to rebuild its strength. A carefully concocted diet was promoting a slow gain in weight, and she’d planned for the judicious increase in gravity within the bay to assist with his recovery of muscle mass. But she’d warned Koenig that, however welcome the initial improvement in his condition might be, it was the long term recovery that was important. Until the lingering effects of his exile had faded, and the last of the plant’s poisons purged from his system, further attacks, and the setbacks they would create, were going to be an inevitable part of his life.

Even so, Koenig had begun to consider ways and means of informing the rest of Alpha about the miracle of his survival. The problem was that it not the sort of thing that could be calmly announced out of the blue: however tempting it might be to slip it in somewhere in among his other daily announcements, he knew that doing so would stir up a hornet’s nest of disruption and potential discord. Bergman’s return was _momentous_ – and needed to be handled accordingly. The more he thought about it, the harder it seemed to become – but then, the longer he left it, the worse it was going to be. There would be any number of people who’d feel hurt at having been kept in the dark, and others who’d start accusing him of doing so for ulterior motives. Alpha had become a close knit community over the years, and while he still felt his initial decision had been a sensible one, it was difficult not to feel a little guilty at not having brought the man home in public triumph, not having allowed everyone to share in those initial moments of astonished elation.

He was waiting for the right moment; maybe even considering a slow drip of revelation rather than a bold announcement. And there was time; despite Sarah-Lee’s stumbling into the situation he didn’t expect the secret to get out of its own accord. The Professor was still very fragile – even the barest exercise in the lowered gravity was exhausting him, and Helena had firmly refused to do anything to address the twist in his damaged leg until he was strong enough to face the necessary surgery. He would hardly be stalking Alpha’s corridors like an unexpected ghost.

Project Haven was a different matter.

Koenig’s refusal to allow universal access to the caverns was beginning to create mutterings of discontent throughout the base. Some of that was easily dealt with. On an individual basis most people accepted the importance of caution and understood that ensuring that the caves were safe took priority. Many had even started talking about ‘Haven privileges’ having to be earned. Others’ however, were being insistent that everyone should have a right of entry, and by the end of the second day, Koenig had resorted to subterfuge in order to keep them off his back. The matter, he announced, was out of his hands. He had appointed a co-ordinator who was to have ultimate authority concerning the Havens, which not even the Alphan Command Crew would be able to countermand. In order that this person should have time to consider the long term implications and objectives of the project, and to decide on a development plan, he – Koenig – had agreed not to publically announce the name of the appointee until such time as they were ready to share their thoughts and ideas.

Paula Abanga was outraged, and said as much to Sarah-Lee Courtney when they met in passing that afternoon. Much to her surprise, Courtney laughed.

“I don’t think this is funny,” Abanga snapped. “I suppose this is Koenig’s way of avoiding having to admit he was wrong. I don’t believe he has even the faintest idea of who will be Project co-ordinator. He certainly hasn’t consulted anyone about it.”

“He didn’t have too,” Courtney told her, still amused. “The choice was obvious.”

“You mean you know?”

“The Commander has asked me to become part of the team,” she explained, managing to both answer and not answer the question at the same time. “The caverns hold a vast potential for providing usable resources, and he wants as much as possible to be identified, recorded, and allocated appropriately. It would be all too easy to lose track of raw materials, rare minerals, metallic ores, that sort of thing, so - we need to set up a system and associated process … not that different to what I’ve been doing here on Alpha. But,” she frowned in thought, “with some different commodities, and – possibly on a much larger scale.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.” Abanga’s response was equally thoughtful. “Who’s going to be doing your job while all this is going on?”

“I am,” Courtney said briskly. “The system here is practically running itself these days. It’s about time I expanded my horizons a little.”

“About time we all did,” Abanga muttered half under her breath. “I don’t know whether to offer congratulations or commiserations,” she observed, darkly. “So much secrecy about all of this. Is there any chance the new Project Director will be a bit more open about their plans than the Commander’s being?”

Courtney smiled at her with infuriating confidence. “There’s a chance,” she said. “But you’ll find out soon enough. I’d give you a hint, but – I don’t want to spoil the Commander’s surprise …”

* * *

Elsewhere on Alpha, Koenig was busy discussing the matter with the man concerned. He hadn’t been quite sure how to articulate his ideas and, even if he had succeeded in doing so, couldn’t be entirely certain that Bergman would be willing to engage with the work they implied. In principle, the concept was an inspiring one – but the reality of what it might take to make it fly was … daunting, to say the least. Outlining the vision was easy enough, but the more he expanded on what might be needed to make it fly, the more the doubt began to creep into his voice. It would be a lot of work, and a great deal of effort for something they might need to abandon at moment’s notice. Could he really ask _anyone_ to take that on?

“So,” he concluded warily, unable to interpret his company’s thoughtful expression. “What do you think?”

“I hate to think of her like that,” Bergman said slowly, his voice soft and his attention turned inwards, focusing on memories that Koenig had no hope of understanding. “Rotting. We killed her, you know that? At Breakaway. We tore her away from the sun she needed. And now you want to exploit her corpse … “

“Hardly - exploit,” Koenig protested. “Just … utilise what’s been left behind.”

“ _Exploit,_ ” the Professor re-iterated firmly, using a tone he might once have used to rebuke his students. “Mankind has always been a race of vandals. Look at what we did to the Earth.”

Koenig let his shoulders slump. Without Victor’s oversight, the project would struggle for direction. Without his input, it might never get further than the drawing board …

“So you won’t do it,” he sighed, unable to conceal his disappointment. Bergman looked up at him in surprise.

“I didn’t say that,” he protested. “Heavens, John – I wouldn’t let anyone else do it! She needs – respect. Careful treatment … _reverence_ … You want to plant a garden under the moon? Want to grow fresh food for the children? Give them something that isn’t cold corridors and sterile walls?” He paused, reining in the sudden fire that had flared in his voice, taking a moment to find his breath and focus his thoughts. “I will build your haven, John. I will take her bones and her blood, and with them I will shape an oasis that will delight the eye, refresh the heart, and fire the soul. But I want carte blanch. My project, my rules.”

“You’ll have it,” Koenig promised, not fighting the smile of delight and relief that the impassioned words had spawned. “There’s a team currently working on a survey, and some minor clearance work going on – but they’ve strict orders not to do anything that isn’t absolutely necessary.”

“It will be – odd,” Bergman contemplated, relaxing back against his pillows, “to walk the caves without her. Not to hear her, singing … She would sing so sweetly …” 

“Well, that’s fine,” Koenig decided briskly, getting to his feet. “We can start taking things forward on that basis. Of course,” he realised, “Helena probably won’t let you do any work as yet, but … “ He broke off. His company’s attention was far away; he was staring, not at the ceiling, but at some spot far beyond it, his eyes focused on the distance, and his expression haunted.

“Victor?”

Koenig leaned down to give his friend’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Victor?”

Bergman blinked. His eyes refocused with effort, and the smile that followed held equal measures of bemusement and apology. “Mmm? Sorry, John, I - uh …”

“Doesn’t matter.” Koenig returned the smile with a sympathetic one of his own. “I think we’re done for now. You get some rest, and I’ll be back to see you tomorrow. We can talk some more then.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. John?”

He’d half turned to leave; he turned back with questioning smile. “Mm?”

“Thank you. For bringing me home. And for still believing in me.”


	11. Part Ten:“Well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you.”

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2167 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

It was, Koenig decided, smiling down at his son, going to be a _good_ day. Perhaps it was the especially bright smile that Michael had greeted him with, or the realisation that – for once – there was nothing urgent demanding his attention. He’d already cleared the routine matters awaiting him in his office that morning, and he’d been able to wander down to the nursery without being side tracked or buttonholed by anyone on the way. Spending time with the children always gave him a lift, and by the time he headed back to work he had a quiet smile on his face and a whole _series_ of thoughts and ideas concerning Project Haven starting to take shape at the back of his mind. 

In fact, he felt so good about life in general that he redirected his steps away from Command Centre and headed for Med-Centre instead, stopping to poke his head through the primary ward door so he could nod a friendly greeting to Verdeschi as he passed by.

“You want me, John?” His security chief was sitting in the common room just next to the recovery ward, a comfortable seating area allocated for the use of mobile and minor injury patients. His dark features were incongruously crowned by a wreath of pale bandages. The dressings on his hands were much lighter than they had been a couple of days before, which was a good sign. Once the threat of his head wound had been dealt with most of his other injures had proved to be more painful than dangerous, and Helena was very pleased with his progress.

“Just dropping by to see how you’re doing,” Koenig reassured him. Rothsburg’s recovery was getting similar good reports, and the only other patient currently in Med-Centre’s care was Angie Defais. She was also sitting in the common room, making use of a computer terminal and Koenig took a moment to appreciate the sight. Despite the problems she’d been having over the months of her pregnancy, she was every inch a radiant Earth Mother that morning, one hand resting on her swollen belly, and her eyes sparkling with laughter every time she reacted to a determined kick from the child she sheltered.

“I’ll be happier,” Verdeschi was saying, “when Carole lets me out of here. I’ve got my latest batch on the go, and she won’t let me go and look at it.”

Koenig grinned. “I don’t suppose a couple more days will do any harm,” he said. You should welcome the opportunity to rest.”

Verdeschi returned the grin with one of his own.. “So they keep telling me. Listen, John – what’s all this about Project Haven? You’ve got the gossips working overtime around here.”

The Commander tried to look innocent – but his Security Chief wasn’t fooled for an instant.

“You have made the appointment, haven’t you?”

“I have.” His slow nod was deliberate, an attempt to downplay the significance of his easy agreement. “”And, no – you can’t know who got it. Not yet. There are – one or two problems that still need ironing out. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Verdeschi’s eyes narrowed with shrewd consideration. “Problems? The same problems you had exploring the caverns in the first place?” Koenig schooled his face into non-committal lines, and responded with an equally non-committal shrug. His interrogator threw up his still bandaged hands in mock surrender. “I know, I know. Trust you. Well, I can’t do much else stuck in here, can I. Does Maya know what’s going on?”

“Yes.” The response was wry: Koenig couldn’t really blame the man for his curiosity. “But she won’t tell you, either.”

“So …”

“So, you’ll know by the end of the week. Maybe sooner. Look – I just dropped by for a moment and I do have other places to be. But I’ll catch up with you later, all right?”

“No problem, Commander.” Verdeschi leaned back into his chair with a grin. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without my Doctor’s permission, anyway!”

 _Definitely_ a good day; no threats on the horizon, his Security Chief on the mend, and the plans for Project Haven starting to take shape. His smile must have been infectious, because Helena was wearing one just like it when she met him in the entrance to the isobays. He was entering: she was just leaving, and she interrupted his progress with a gently extended hand.

“Make it later, John,” she said. “He’s asleep right now, and he needs the rest. He had a bad night.”

“Another attack?” he asked, immediately concerned. She shook her head.

“Just some bad dreams, I think. I don’t know what about, but I’m not surprised. He’s got a lot of readjustment to do. John,” she sighed, “this is getting harder and harder to keep quiet. Ben wanted Julio for something yesterday, and I had to invent some excuse or other for his unavailability. I’m not sure he was convinced. I’m not sure I would have been. And there’s Bob, and Carole, and, well … we have good people down here, and I can’t lie to them, John. Not about this. It’s too – “

“Earth shattering?” he completed for her, and echoed her earlier sigh. “I know,” he admitted. “There has to be some way … If only we could be sure – he _is_ on the road to recovery, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but …” She shrugged, a confession of ignorance. “I don’t know, John. How can I know? He’s regaining some of his strength, but he’s still incredibly fragile. The next attack could kill him. Or the one after that. He’s made it this far, and every day he survives pushes the odds a little further in his favour. And I know it would be hard for everyone to learn of his return only for us to lose him all over again … but they need to know. Everyone on Alpha lives with uncertainty every day. None of us know if we’re going to survive tomorrow. That he _has_ survived – against such unbelievable odds … well, “ she concluded softly, “It’s your decision, John. But, if you want Project Haven to happen – Alpha needs to know who you’ve asked to take it forward.”

“I know.” He took the opportunity to caress the curve of her cheek, to be – for a moment – just the man who loved her and nothing else. She leaned into his touch and gently pressed her hand against his. “What would I do without you,” he murmured softly.

“Survive,” she told him firmly. “For Alpha’s sake, if not your own. For Michael, and all the other children. But I’m not going anywhere, Commander John Koenig. Except to my next appointment, and the patient that’s waiting for me.”

He laughed and bent to kiss her. She kissed him back, as certainly and as matter-of-factly as her words had been.

“When can I ...?” he asked as they parted.

“This afternoon,” she answered, knowing what he’d meant. “He should be awake by then. Jalisa will be on duty – just check with her before you come down.”

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Year 6 – 2167 days Post Breakaway.  
Personal Log Entry: Dr Helena Russell

* * *

It was just after midday that the good day began to turn into a desperate one. Helena was in her office providing Carole with a considered second opinion, the two of them discussing what the scans of Rothsburg’s shoulder had revealed. They were both a little concerned, since their patient had reported a discomforting numbness in her fingers, but the scans suggested it was probably due to swelling around the damaged joint rather than anything more serious. 

On the other side of the office door Med_Centre was bustling with activity. Alan Carter, who had arrived to escort Carole to a late lunch, was busy entertaining Verdeschi in the common room with scurrilous tales of recent shenanigans in the Hanger bays. Two orderlies were occupied with the daily cleaning in the recovery and the main ward, Ben Vincent was busy running a series of routine tests on Angie Defais. Nobody even looked up as Maxymiew entered; if they had, they might have caught the anxious look in his eyes. 

The solidly built Slav paced quickly past the open doors to the common room, glancing warily at its occupants as he did so. He threw a second glance into the office, then moved on, looming up on Doctor Vincent position like a heavily loaded Eagle coming in for a landing. He did not respond to Angie’s welcoming smile – which slowly faded into doubt and worry as she registered her partner’s determined expression.

“I’ve come for Angie,” Maxymiew announced, as Vincent turned towards him questioningly. Something in the man’s voice – or perhaps in his eyes – made the doctor take a wary step backwards.

“I’m sorry, Max, I - I don’t understand. Angie needs …”

“She’s coming with me.” The words were tense. Controlled. The man’s hand tugged back the jacket which had been draped over his arm – revealing the muzzle of a heavy duty laser rifle. Vincent’s eyes went wide.

“Max?” Angie’s disbelieving protest lifted heads elsewhere in the centre. Carter moved to the common room door to see what was going on. Helena glanced at Carole, and then reached for her commlock to trigger the office door so that the two of them could do the same.

“It’s all right, Angie,” Max was saying, gesturing for Vincent to move away from her side. “I promised I’d come for you. I’m going to get you out of here. I‘m going to take you away – take you somewhere _safe._ Somewhere where there’s running water and clean air to breathe.”

His voice was tight with determination. Angie cast an anxious look at Vincent’s ashen face, returning his slow nod of acknowledgement before easing herself off the diagnostic bed. Maxymiew beckoned her over, the weapon barely wavering as he reached to encircle her with his arm.

“Now,” he said, once she was safely in his care, “Let’s go. You too, Doctor,” he added, gesturing with the rifle. “You walk ahead of us.”

Vincent lifted his hands to convey his acquiescence, and did as he was told, half backing out of the ward and leading the way towards the outer rooms. Carole started to edge back into the office, probably intending to raise the alarm – but her movement drew Maxymiew’s attention and he swung towards her.

“Don’t,” he growled. “I’m not here to cause trouble, just - come out here. Both of you.” He jerked his head towards the outer doors, indicating they should join Vincent in the reception area. “You too, Captain,” he called, seeing Alan hovering. “Bring Mr Verdeschi. I don’t want any misunderstandings. No need to call security.” 

“Yeah, right,” Carter muttered, cautiously beckoning Carole and Helena to join him. The look he was giving Maxymiew was a mixture of both anger and incomprehension. Helena put a reassuring hand to his arm and squeezed it gently, trying to convey a warning against precipitate action. The situation did not demand a gung-ho response, or any wanton heroics. If the rifle fired – even randomly – someone was almost certainly going to get hurt. In the worst scenario that had flittered through her mind, it fired _upwards_ – potentially cutting through both the ward ceiling and the surface building that sat above it.

If that precipitated an atmospheric breach, they were all going to be in trouble. 

“All right,” their abductor decided, “all of you – move out there. Slowly. And keep together. I want to see what you’re doing.”

Carol caught at Carter’s other arm and he glanced at her, his face softening with a moment of apology. A quick nod reassured her, and her glance in Helena’s direction conveyed her understanding of the need to co-operate. The desperate note in Maxymiew’s voice told an eloquent story; his worry over Angie had clearly driven him past his breaking point, and he was seeking a way to escape the fear and frustration that had fuelled this sudden madness. A position Helena might have been able to talk him down from – if there were somewhere else for him to go. But on Alpha there was no change in environment that they could offer him. Nowhere that would provide the shelter and the escape that he sought.

Nowhere that was safe for Angie, at least. Whatever he might think.

A jerk from the rifle set them in motion, Verdeschi moving out of the common room to deliberately place himself between Helena and the armed man at their back. Not that his intervention would provide much protection – the laser would cut through steel and mere flesh wouldn’t even slow it down – but she appreciated the gesture all the same.

She spotted one of the orderlies duck back into the recovery ward and she risked a sideways glance and a surreptitious nod to get them to lie low. The woman concerned nodded back and vanished, silently, hopefully doing her best to keep herself and her colleague out of harm’s way. Maxymiew hadn’t noticed her, and Helena sighed with inner relief as their progress took them past the ward and out into the main corridor.

“This isn’t right, Max,” she offered in a soothing tone as they reached the intersection and the comm-post in the middle of it. “Angie needs our care, not …”

“She needs to be somewhere safe,” he interrupted, a note of anger in his voice. “I’ve had enough of reassuring words and meaningless promises. The Commander has been keeping us all from paradise, and that’s where Angie needs to be. Where we all need to be. Away from – this _place._ This tomb. We’re nothing but ghosts here, Dr Russell. The living dead. Walled away in silence. Denied light and air, without even the scent of flowers on our graves…”

“ _Shit,_ ” murmured Carter, summing up the general reaction to that little speech. Helena shivered. She knew what Maymiew was thinking now, knew that his overwrought mind had been twisted and poisoned by the rumours that had been circulating for days. She’d never dreamed that anyone would take them seriously enough to act on them. The caverns might seem to be paradise at first glance, but while they may have provided sanctuary – of a sort - for one man, exiled there without choice or hope of rescue, they were no place to take a heavily pregnant woman. Especially one so close to term.

“Max - ” she tried again, a little more anxiously this time.

“No,” he growled. “No more platitudes. Get the Commander down here. Now!”

His tone brooked no arguments: Verdeschi was nodding his agreement with the idea, but caught her hand as it dipped for her commlock. He pushed her towards the comm-post instead, his eyes flicking up to the camera link, then back down to hers. She gave him a small smile and nod of her own, then cautiously moved across to make the call.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2167 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

Koenig frowned at the unexpected bleep from his commlock and threw his company an apologetic glance.

“Koenig,” he responded, lifting the device to trigger the requested connection. His shoulders, automatically tensed, started to relax a little as the familiar face appeared on the tiny screen. 

“John?” Helena’s expression was anxious. “We have – a little problem here. Where are you?”

His lips narrowed as he identified the tension in her voice – that and the shapes of other people somewhere behind her. She was using a community compost, rather than her personal commlock. There were several reasons why she might have chosen to do so, but none of them were comforting ones.

“I’m with – “ He hesitated for a second, conscious that others would be hearing his response. “ – my project co-ordinator. Something wrong?”

She glanced to one side for a moment. “I need you here,” she said. “As soon as you can. Med-Centre’s main corridor – just down from the travel-tube. It’s urgent, John,” she added, trying to sound calm and not quite managing it..

“All right,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

He shut down the call and got to his feet. “Sorry, Victor,” he said. “Duty calls.”

“Trouble?” Bergman asked. Koenig sighed.

“I don’t know.” His gut said _yes,_ but he might be reading more into things than was necessary. There was no point in making a sick man worried without good reason. Especially when there’d be nothing he could do to help if there was a problem. “Probably nothing – something routine. I’ll be back.”

He left with an easy step, but extended his stride the moment full gee allowed him too, turning left, instead of right as he left the bays. He might currently be _in_ Med-Centre, but he had no official reason to be, and needed to arrive from a more predictable direction … which was probably why Helena had mentioned the travel tube when she’d asked him to join her.

He strode across the outer lobby and quickly loped up the stairs, triggering the door at the top. The space beyond it was lit only by the red emergency light above the airlock. They had long since left the planetary system that had proved to be such a disappointment, and the windows – like the landscape outside – were dark and revealed nothing except a distant sprinkle of stars.

He closed the lower door and used his command override to unseal the access to the surface passageways. The door hissed a little as it opened, the slight difference in atmospheric pressure behind it creating a momentary breeze away from him. That probably meant there was a slow bleed somewhere in this part of the upper levels – a degrading door seal, or a micro stress fracture in a wall panel perhaps – and he made a mental note to get it checked out as soon as he’d dealt with Helena’s ‘little problem.’ For now he simply strode along the dimly lit corridor, pausing only to make sure that the door had fully resealed behind him.

It only took a few minutes to cover the necessary distance and reverse the procedure; the next set of stairs dropped him down into a maintenance lobby, and from there it was easy enough to stroll out into the main corridor again, walking past the travel-tube station and making it look as if he’d just arrived from the other side of the base. 

“So, what’s all this abou – “ he started to say as he turned the corner. The warning hand that Helena raised stopped him in his tracks. The tableaux that greeted him made her ‘problem’ all too clear – the small group gathered on one side of the passageway, the armed man and the distraught woman on the other, and Helena in between the two, turning to meet his arrival with a mixture of relief and alarm.

“That’s far enough, Commander.” Maxymiew’s voice was strained. “Thank you for coming so quickly. Now we can get on with the rest of this.”

Koenig lifted both hands and spread them wide to show he wasn’t a threat. “I’m sure we can sort things out,” he offered warily. “What is it you want, Max?”

“I want to go home,” the man growled angrily. “But that’s not going to happen, is it. None of us are going home. We’re going to die in this place, in this … _coffin._ ”

“Not if I can help it,” Koenig said, softly. “We’ve made it this far, Max. We’ll find somewhere …”

“You _found_ somewhere,” Max spat back, alert to Carter’s cautious half step forward. The barrel of the laser swung towards him and the pilot stepped back, his face betraying his frustration and anger at the course of events. “You found paradise, Commander. It was here, under the Moon, all along. But you won’t let anyone in. You’ve shut the gates and guarded the door. And now you’re going to open them. For me - and for Angie.”

Koenig risked a glance at the woman concerned, and she sent him an apologetic, slightly despairing look. Her hand, up until now resting on her distended belly, lifted in moment of quiet helplessness – then returned to its resting place, as if trying to protect the child within her from its father’s madness.

Koenig frowned. “Max,” he said, “surely Angie needs – “

“A change of air. Time in the garden. To be among living things, Commander. Not this sterile world of metal and plastic. She needs to feel alive again. As I do. There’s an elevator,” Maxymiew went on, speaking to his partner, his eyes – and his voice – suddenly alight with hope, “At the end of the passageway over there. It goes all the way down. All the way down to the catacombs. And there’s a buggy, waiting beside it that will take us to the garden. All I need is the Commander’s word.” He looked across at Koenig with determined challenge. “Tell them to let us through, Commander. Tell security we’re coming, and they’re not to stop us. Understand?”

Koenig nodded slowly, reaching – very carefully – for his commlock. It was obvious that Maxymiew was well past the point of reason. There’d be no point in arguing with him, since he wouldn’t listen. The slightest hint of a wrong move and someone was going to get hurt. All they could do – for the moment, anyway – was play along.

“Max,” Helena pleaded softly, “Don’t do this. Angie should be in bed, not bouncing around in a buggy. Don’t you want your child to live?”

“He’ll live in paradise. Give the order, Commander.”

Koenig nodded, lifting the commlock and thumbing the relevant keys. Hancock answered the call, his face appearing on the tiny screen. “Commander?” he queried.

“Is there anyone in the caverns right now?” Koenig asked. Hancock looked puzzled at the question.

“No, sir. The survey team finished half an hour ago. And the next set of volunteers aren’t due until tomorrow. Doctor’s orders,” he explained, obviously knowing that Koenig should know that. “Limited exposure, and mandatory rest and recovery time. Stops the toxins accumulating. We’re about to lock up down here.”

“Hold that thought,” Koenig ordered. “There’s some people going to be heading your way very shortly. I may be with them,” he added, with a glance in Maxymiew’s direction. “When they reach you – let them through. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Hancock frowned at him. “But we’re out of the mandatory counter-reagents at the moment. I’m supposed to pick up the new batch on my way down here tomorrow. Has Dr Russell cleared them for entry?”

“Dr Russell’s here with me.” Koenig was pleased to hear that his security team were paying attention to their orders, but there was no time to explain the complexities of the current situation. “She knows what’s going on.”

“Okay, sir. No problem. We’ll stand by.”

“Good. Koenig out.”

He cut the connection and carefully clipped his commlock back to his belt. “All right?” he asked, and Maxymiew nodded.

“Thank you,” he said relaxing a little. His eyes and his stance were still wary, though, and the laser remained pointed at his hostages. “That way,” he ordered, waving them towards the relevant corridor with a jerk of his head. “You too, Commander. Take the lead.”

Koenig nodded, walking carefully past him and waving the rest of the group into motion as he did so. Helena fell into step beside him; they exchanged the briefest of glances, mutually acknowledging the uncertainty of the situation. Maxymiew probably wouldn’t shoot anyone as long as he thought he was getting what he wanted – but that could change at a moment’s notice. And part of what he wanted was currently taking Angie away from the care and support she desperately needed. 

Their progress was slow: Maxymiew and Angie stayed on the left side of the corridor, a step or two behind everyone else on the right. They were, Koenig realised after a moment, moving straight towards the isobays he’d left only a few minutes earlier. A few more steps would take them into the outer lobby …

He turned and walked warily backwards, shooting both Carter and Verdeschi a warning glance. The sudden acquisition of space might look like an opportunity for action, but one wrong move and people were going to get hurt. He’d prefer to end this peacefully, to allow Maxymiew to come to his senses. He was a good man, and he’d been a steady constant throughout their years of travelling. That he had cracked, now, when there was a question over the health of his lover and his child … well, sometimes it surprised him that more people hadn’t succumbed to the stresses of their exile, the limits and the strictures that living on Alpha demanded of all of them. 

And maybe they were all mad, believing that they could do more than simply live. Thinking that they could have a future. That their children would not only grow, but thrive … 

“Max,” Angie was saying, softly, “Are you sure about this? I don’t feel so good …”

She was visibly flagging. Even that short walk had drained her strength, and the effort to go on was clearly written across her face.

“I’m sure, my love.” If Maxymiew had noticed her distress, he hadn’t understood what it might mean. “You’ll see. It’s like a gift from God. An impossible garden, growing at the heart of the moon. Bright, beautiful flowers. Running water. Air so sweet you could live on it forever …”

“All things live forever … though at times they sleep and are forgotten.” The words were soft, spoken in thoughtful tones – and in a voice that had not been publically heard on Moonbase Alpha for five long years. “Living on little more than air is not very practical though. Sweetness can become very … cloying, when it’s the only thing you have. I don’t recommend it. And you should know better, Max. Gardens, like grain, need more than dreams. They take hard work and patience to grow.”

Koenig turned. Bergman was leaning in the open doorway to the isobays, his back against the frame, and one arm folded over the other so that he could rest his chin against his hand. For the Commander, who’d begun to lose a little of his sense of wonder at knowing his friend was alive and safely back on Alpha, the sight generated a mixture of concern, irritation, and a smidgeon of alarm. Helena’s reaction was probably very similar: the Professor was in no way ready to deal with full Earth gravity for any length of time, and, even if he didn’t realise it, he’d just put himself in harm’s way.

The rest of them, however …

Shock and disbelief hung in the air like a tangible cloud. Carter’s mouth had dropped open. Carole Irwin had taken a step backwards in alarm. Verdeschi was frowning in complete puzzlement. Maxymiew had gone white as a sheet – 

And Angie Defais had fainted, her eyes rolling up and her legs giving way beneath her. She slid, inelegantly, to the ground, her body slithering out the curve of Maxymiew’s arm and down the length of his side. Koenig, only briefly distracted by his friend’s appearance, took the opportunity to charge across the distance and push the muzzle of the laser rifle towards the floor. Maxymiew went on staring, oblivious to everything except the figure in the doorway, the unexpected ghost that was smiling at him with wry amusement.

“ _Professor?_ ” he breathed. 

“Yes?” Bergman responded, then smiled, probably realising it hadn’t been a question, but an exclamation of disbelief. “Oh – I’m sorry. I – uh … suppose I startled you. Should I start quoting Hamlet? _I am thy father's spirit, doom'd for a certain term to walk the night,..._ ” He shared a look of amusement with Koenig, who, having safely retrieved the rifle, was now frowning at him affectionately. “Doesn’t quite work with these pyjamas does it …”

Maxymiew followed Angie to the floor, overwhelmed by shock and deserted by the adrenaline that had been driving him for days. Fortunately he fell against the wall, rather than on Helena, who had rushed to Angie’s side and was busy settling her in the recovery position, checking her vital signs as she did so. Ben Vincent left her to it and moved to check on Maxymiew instead.

Koenig felt the tension leave him in a rush. The crisis – one of them, at least – was over. And the cat was well and truly out of the bag.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked, not entirely sure whether he should be thanking him for his timely intervention or castigating him for ignoring his doctor’s orders. “He could have killed you!”

“Max?” Bergman shook his head. “I doubt it. Besides,” he added with a smile, “hard to kill a man who’s been dead for years.”

On the other side of the lobby, the rest of the hostage group had begun to stir. Carole Irwin moved to help Helena and Vincent with their patients, pulling out her commlock to summon some assistance and casting wary glances at the ghost in the doorway as she did so.. Carter and Verdeschi stepped across to join their Commander. The pilot was disconcertedly looking, first at Koenig, then at Bergman, then back again, his entire face a wide eyed and dumbfounded question.

Verdeschi, on the other hand, had leapt to a sensible, if completely erroneous conclusion. “Maya?” he queried warily, earning himself a puzzled look from the Professor. Koenig responded with a curt shake of his head; he was more concerned with his friend’s fragile state than providing long winded explanations. Bergman had unfolded his arms and let them drop; his hands were shaking and his face had gone decidedly pale.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Koenig realised with concern. He thrust the rifle at Verdeschi, the man taking it from him in automatic response, and glanced in Carter’s direction. “Alan?”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Help Victor back to the iso-ward, will you? And watch the gravity gradient – it’s set down to point five over there.”

Reality – or perhaps realisation – had finally connected the dots; Carter broke into a broad and delighted grin, stepping up to slide a muscled arm around Bergman’s shoulders. “Sure thing, Commander,” he said, taking a moment to study the older man’s gaunt face. “You’re looking a little crook, Professor,” he decided warmly, and Bergman found him a wan smile.

“Alan,” he acknowledged, sounding as delighted by the reunion as Carter obviously was. “Sorry, John,” he added with an effort, “don’t mean to be a problem …”

“Problem?” Koenig laughed. “Oh no – not this time, Victor. It’s good to have you back and solving them for me … “ He jerked his head towards the isobay and Carter nodded, half lifting, half steering his charge away from the doorway and into the reception area beyond. He was joined a bare second later by Carole, dispatched by Helena to assist in resettling the least worrying of her patients. The other two were being loaded onto the gurneys that had just arrived. Koenig suddenly felt vaguely redundant, still wired enough to need to be in charge, but not really having much to contribute to the situation.

“Tony,” he remembered a moment later, turning to the man with brisk relief. 

“John?” Verdeschi practically snapped to attention; his attention had been fixed on Bergman, watching as he and his escort vanished into the depths of the isobay.

“Find out how Max got hold of that rifle, will you? And why nobody missed it. Get some men down to retrieve the buggy he was talking about – and let Hancock know he can stand down and lock up down below.”

“Will do.”

Koenig left him moving across to the lobby commpost, and went to join Helena where she stood, watching a now conscious, but whoozy, Maxymiew being loaded onto the second gurney. Dr Vincent was well on his way back down the corridor, pacing beside Angie as she was wheeled away.

“Make it short, John,” Helena said as he stepped up beside her. “Ben’s on his way to set up the birthing suite, and I need to be right behind him. Alpha’s population is about to increase. Again,” she added, the brief moment of humour in her final word conveying both her relief at things having worked out, and the message that he needed to hear. She was fine, and he could stop worrying about her. 

At least, go back to only worrying as much as he usually did.

“Angie?” he queried, and she nodded.

“I don’t recommend witnessing a partner’s mental breakdown – or encountering an unexpected ghost – as methods of inducement, but … they seemed to have worked well in Angie’s case.”

“And Max?”

She sighed. “I should have seen it coming, John. I’m sometimes surprised that more of us don’t crack like that. We’ll sedate him for a bit, let him get some rest. He’ll be okay, I think. A little therapy, a healthy baby … maybe a temporary change of job will help. Living on Alpha isn’t easy for any of us. But I should have seen the signs.”

Koenig took the opportunity to drape his arm around her shoulders, giving her a gentle hug. “You’ve had other things on your mind,” he reminded her gently. “As have I. Crisis over. We can take a moment’s breath before the next one. And _you_ have a child to welcome aboard.” He slid his arm away, returning to Command mode with the ease of long practice. “I’ll see you later?”

She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded, hastening after her patients into the depths of her domain. Koenig watched her until she vanished around the corner, then turned back to Verdeschi, who was being suitably competent, despite his crown of bandages and being out of uniform.

“Copy that, Hancock,” he was saying. “Lock it down and come home for the night. Verdeschi out.”

He killed the connection with a flick, and turned to find his Commander watching him. The rifle had vanished – probably passed, Koenig realised – to one of the security team that had arrived with the gurneys. 

“Havens secured, Commander,” his Chief reported. “Wilcox is retrieving the buggy, and I’ve got someone looking for a missing rifle. If you see what I mean.”

“I do.” Koenig nodded with satisfaction. Apparently being briefly kidnapped, nursing a head injury and wandering the hallways in his pyjamas didn’t put Verdeschi off his stride. “Should you be getting back to bed?”

“I suppose so.” The man didn’t look that enthused by the idea. “It’s driving me crazy, John. Bed rest, I mean. I have work to do, but – Carole says I have to stay in MedCentre for a couple more days.”

“Well,” Koenig glanced thoughtfully at the isobay door. “Strictly speaking, you are in MedCentre. How about we compromise? You continue to stay within the Centre’s boundaries, and I’ll introduce you to the Project Haven Co-ordinator.”

“The Project … the _Professor?_ ” Verdeschi’s eyes lit up. “Seeing him there … I thought - “

“I know. But it’s really him, Tony. When he fell – all those years ago? He didn’t fall into darkness. He fell into paradise.”

“Then he was – your ‘problem?’”

“Yes. We weren’t entirely sure at first, and then … he’s a sick man, Tony. Five years down there. Alone. With no hope of rescue, and no way to escape. Living on contaminated fruit and equally contaminated air. But he _survived_ , Tony. And will continue to do so. If we take care of him. Want to help?”

Verdeschi grinned. “Try and stop me,” he laughed.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Personal log, Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2168 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

By the following morning the news had spread right across the base, producing a range of reactions from astonished delight, through disconcerted incredulity, to firm denial and sheer disbelief. Those last few were in the process of being disabused of their scepticism by friends and family; Koenig had made the official announcement in an almost offhanded manner, slipping it between the declaration of Peter Ivan Maxymiew’s birth, and the formal arrangements for the year end celebrations to be held in two weeks time.

He did not announce that the effort Bergman had expended moving in unaccustomed gravity had brought on another attack – milder than the previous one, but bad enough to cause Helena some concern. Nor did he make any formal mention of Maymiew’s breakdown, relying on the Alphan grapevine to ensure that those who had a need to know about it would do so. He concentrated instead on the arrangements for the celebration – a week-long series of events that would commence with the start of the ‘flying party’. The party had evolved a little over the years, but the basic concept had remained; the creation of an occasion that was utterly Alphan in both content and execution. Unlike life on Earth, the need to keep the base fully operational at all times dictated that there was no such thing as ‘holiday down time’ or ‘minimal staffing levels; instead the pattern of Alpha’s duty rostas had enabled the party to pass from one section to the next, starting – formally enough – in the central mess hall, and then ‘flying’ from unit to unit as duty personnel ended their shifts and took up the party flag. It would go on for most of the week, taking in the various other events that year end demanded, and would end – usually somewhat riotously – in the main hanger with the final of the intersection games. This year the vote had been for a volley ball contest, and the two top teams were believed to hail from Security on the one hand, and Reconnaissance on the other. Koenig had a suspicion that Engineering might be an undervalued contender, and he was looking forward to seeing if some of the qualifying matches would prove him right.

Announcements over, he put the event programme down on his desk, and he sighed, thinking about recent events and the necessity of having something like Year End to look forward to. Anticipation and planning provided a useful escape valve for the constant tension that underran the day to day of life on Alpha. Fate, and maybe human nature, had dictated that the Luna New year began in September. After a long round of discussions, suggestions, and a few disagreements, his Command Crew had instigated the Year End festival: a combination of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukah, and New Year all rolled into one. They still kept other holidays, of course: Christmas – or _giftmas_ as they taken to calling it – was still popular. Those who still held to particular religious faiths were more than welcome to observe their own particular festivals, and many a convivial, or thoughtful, evening had been spent sharing an Easter mass, a Diwali celebration, or other spiritual moments with those who wished to do so. Not to mention ensuring that those who wanted to partake in Ramadan were able to; there’d been arrangements in place for Muslims posted to Alpha long before Breakaway, and there were still some crew members who would pause at certain times of the day in order to pray. The base’s chapel was fully non-denominational by design, and it had always included a number of side rooms for private prayer and meditation. 

Year End was Alpha’s own: a tine to mark and celebrate their on-going survival. But it was also a chance to pause and remember lost friends, to acknowledge what had been lost, while being thankful for what they had and what they’d achieved. It was time for quarrels to be put aside, for partnerships to be recognised – or ended in an amicable way – and for Alpha to look forward. To speculate and to dream without hesitation or fear. Year End was about positive tomorrows, some of which might never come – but from which could spring plans and projects that made the year to follow something to look forward to.

 _This_ year would be particularly special. There really was something to celebrate. Not just the welcome return of an old friend, the discovery of the plant that had sheltered him, and the start of Project Haven – but the new young lives that had brought back the Alphan’s sense of purpose. For the first time Year End would be more than a celebration of survival – it would mark a clear sense of achievement, of points won against a hostile Universe. And next year? If they were still on Alpha, then the next year, perhaps, they would celebrate among the vaulted roofs of a hidden world, a haven from the stresses of day to day living, a place where lovers could walk among green and growing things, and the only disruptions would be the ringing laughter of a child.

It was a cheering thought, and Koenig carried it with him as he went to collect the Year End present he had commissioned for the mother of his child. A single flower, plucked from the plant’s dying branches, and encased forever in a fine film of silver. Michael’s present had been much easier to organise; he had personal constructed a twisting sculpture – a mobile made of light and colour – which would hang above the boy’s cot, delighting and encouraging his young mind.

* * *

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Year End Celebrations:  
Personal log of Commander John Koenig: Year 6 – 2182 days Post Breakaway.

* * *

As the days passed, a sense of expectancy had slowly fallen over everything – a prelude to the approaching event and the anticipation of what it would bring. It had been a time of clandestine meetings and hastily changed conversations; of the hiding of mysterious packages, and the sound of muffled rehearsals. Koenig had walked through it all with the dignity that was expected of him. Command Crew were supposed to be above such things. Well, the _Commander_ was supposed to be. He wasn’t sure about Carter, who appeared to be captaining the Reconnaissance volleyball team, or Verdeschi, for that matter, who’d achieved his long-for release from Med-Centre, only to vanish in his off-duty hours muttering arcane phases like ‘batch numbers’ and ‘fermentation times.’ Privately, Koenig wondered if the would-be brewer would ever achieve his desired aim; half of the fun appeared to be in attempting the impossible – and the search for a refreshing brew and a satisfying taste was the kind of quest that might well last a lifetime.

Despite all the hurried preparations, the impatient performances of duty, and the occasional bending of rules that security had carefully overlooked, there was only one thing bothering him. Two days after the incident with Maxymiew, Koenig had found time to formally introduce Maya to Bergman – and he wasn’t entirely happy with the result. She’d been so uncertain of her standing that she’d fallen into defensive aloofness in order to conceal her nervousness, and he – despite Koenig carefully explaining her abilities and assuring him that she had not been a product of his overactive imagination– had received her with uncharacteristic suspicion. Perhaps he’d been unsettled by her official title – her role as ‘Science Officer’ – or perhaps overly wary of her alien nature; whatever the reason, the meeting had only succeeded in generating mutual uncertainty and a level of wary hostility on both sides. She had left, unconvinced that the man she’d met could ever match up to the one she’d seen in Alpha’s recordings, somewhat concerned that the brilliant mind she’d heard about might have lost much of its shine and sharpness as a result of his experiences. He, on the other hand, had not warmed to her, at all.

Koenig had no doubt that they would solve their differences eventually, but it would clearly take much longer than he’d initially expected. He could only hope that her wary doubt, and his equally wary suspicion would manifest in professional indifference rather than an open declaration of hostilities. 

As concerns went, it was a mild disquiet rather than full blown unease: he would give them time, and if that didn’t work, he’d give them both a piece of his mind. Maya would probably listen to that. He wasn’t entirely sure that Bergman would, but they’d been friends a long time and had learned to value honesty between them. He would, at least, respect the judgement of Alpha’s Commander concerning the safety and security of her crew, and was perfectly capable of working professionally with people for whom he no respect at all. Simmons, and Gorski sprang to mind …

Maya, of course, was nothing like either of those men, and he was hoping that his friend would come to recognise that long before it became an issue. There would be occasions when they would have to work together, even if Bergman’s focus on Project Haven would make those occasions few and far between – and Koenig knew both of them well enough to suspect that, once the ice had thawed, they could and _would_ become friends. 

So long as neither of them did anything unforgivable in the meantime.

Helena had a completely different matter to worry about. She’d found herself practically under siege from people wanting to visit her patient. Fortunately his fragile state was an easy excuse to limit the crowd, but her real reason for limiting the number of visitors – and the time they might spend with him – was a concern that, having been alone for so long, too _much_ company might be more than he could cope with. Koenig had expressed some surprise at that, but – having been present on the day that both Carter and Carole Irwin had dropped by unexpectedly, he’d been able to understand her caution. The momentary flash of panic in Bergman’s eyes – quickly concealed and replaced by a welcoming smile – had convinced him far more than any of Helena’s thoughtful psychological diagnosis. Even old friends had, in some ways, become strangers – and Bergman was finding that a difficult challenge. He only truly relaxed in the limited company that had welcomed him home: Helena and her chosen support team, Koenig himself – and young Jackie Crawford, none of whom would be judgemental over his inevitable lapses in concentration, or his – admittedly fading - social uncertainties. 

His doctor was pleased with his progress, though, and thought that a slowly extended, and suitably supervised, exposure to others would – eventually – allow him to comfortably and completely reintegrate with Alphan society. Even though the threat of further attacks hung over him, his general health was improving in leaps and bounds. He was beginning to regain some of the boundless energy that had always been one of his notable features and, while he still tired easily, and needed constant rest, he was quite determined about his recovery and was becoming unwilling to admit defeat.

Taking that on board, Koenig had dragged Jo Webster out of the caverns to report directly to Bergman and taken a deliberate half step back from Project Haven. The prospect of the work ahead had added to the Professor’s growing determination; he’d started regular meetings with Webster and the rest of his team – just an hour a day, discussing their discoveries and his local knowledge, along with plans and quick fixes to avoid potential problems. Helena had been initially concerned about the demands it might make on him, but having something to focus on did him a world of good, and the team were careful not to let him over-exert himself. They all seemed to take quite a proprietary pride in ‘their’ Project Co-ordinator, an attitude that quickly extended into both admiration and respect. His ideas were ambitious, but they had a good practical basis underpinning them, and he was willing to listen to their thoughts and incorporate them alongside his own. 

After the third such meeting, Henry Lassiter had volunteered his best botanist to join the team, and Carter had added himself to the roster, bringing initial plans for developing a remote Eagle hanger, along with the results of his surface survey. _Early days,_ Bergman had smiled, when Koenig had asked about how things were going. It was good to see him immersed in the work, using it to support his recovery – in much the same way as earlier work had once supported him through unexpected grief, so many years before.

The days flew past, and suddenly it was the night before Year End. With the base status at condition _Green_ , and the entire personnel on tenterhooks, Koenig stood in his office and assessed the moment. He always had final say on starting the festival – if he had any doubt about needing peak performance from his crew for any reason, he could – and would – postpone it. Two years before they had come in range of a potential planetary system at precisely the wrong moment and he’d held the Year End week back by four days while the necessary reconnaissance took priority. This year presented no such problems, and Koenig allowed himself a quiet smile as he thumbed open the base wide communication channel to deliver what had become a traditional message.

“Attention all sections Alpha. This is Commander John Koenig. As of twenty-four hundred hours tonight Moonbase Alpha will be operating on minimal roster only. All off duty personnel are under direct orders to enjoy themselves.

“Stand down, Alpha. It’s festival time!”

* * *

The flying party began, as usual, in the main Mess hall, and the room was packed as Koenig entered, Helena a close step behind him. He was still in uniform, but she, and a great many others, had found time to change into something far less formal. The pale blue sweep of her dress accented her natural elegance, and she wore Koenig’s gift – the soft gleam of silver at her throat – with both pleasure and pride. She had not yet produced her gift for him, and the only answer she’d given his tentative question concerning it had been a quiet and enigmatic smile.

The party was poised with anticipation, awaiting the Commander’s customary toast before it could really get underway. Verdeschi, along with Maya and the other off duty members of his Command team, were waiting for him beside the table at the centre of the room, where trays of assorted treats were laid out, along with the inevitable empty cups, the steaming flagon of coffee and the carafe of the Italian’s latest experiments in brewing. But this year, there were something else on the table – a deep, glass bowl, filled with a clear purple-red liquid.

“Punch?” Koenig queried, raising an eyebrow at the unexpected addition to their feast.

“ _Haven_ punch,” Verdeschi beamed with quiet delight. “Webster’s had the volunteers picking fruit for days. We’ve boxes of it, freeze dried and stored in the surface lockers – cold enough out there to keep it preserved for years.”

Koenig frowned. “But – the toxins ..”

“Removed,” Maya assured him over Verdeschi’s shoulder. “Mostly. We rehydrate the fruit, crush it, strain and filter the juices – and then distill the result. It keeps its flavour, but removes over ninety percent of the contaminants.”

“There are just enough left to add a little – punch, to the punch,” Verdeschi declared. His grin suggested he was speaking from first-hand experience. “But it’s all been cleared with Medical, and we made enough for everyone to get at least one glass.”

“Real fruit juice,” Koenig noted, impressed by their ingenuity. He glanced at Helena’s amused smile, and broke into one of his own. “That’s definitely something to celebrate! How’s the beer?”

“Could be better,” the brewer admitted wryly. “But there’s a good chance I’ll be brewing in a wooden barrel next year. And who knows? There might even be a few hops to help the process along.”

Koneig grinned. “Don’t get _too_ ambitious, Tony. Real wood may be one thing, but – real ale?”

There was a ripple of general laughter at that; Verdeschi’s efforts had been slowly improving over the years, despite the paucity of necessary ingredients. His substitutions were actually beginning to produce a half-decent drink – although no-one in their right mind would mistake it for the real thing. 

He might be right though. They probably did have seeds for hops lurking somewhere in the bio-bank – and if they could balance the gravity and clear an appropriate patch of ground, down in the Havens …

“So, “ Koenig began to say, “the toast …”

“Not yet, John,” Helena interrupted, reaching to catch is arm. “I have something for you, first. Tony? Do you have it?”

“Sure do.” His Security Chief reached behind the coffeepot, bringing out a very familiar looking object. He handed it over with a flourish, and Koenig frowned in confusion.

“Why would I need another …” He’d turned the commlock over as he was speaking, and the words died in his throat. His eyes lifted from the security designation to meet Helena’s affectionate smile. “Are you – _sure?_ ”

“I don’t see why not,” she answered warmly. “Under supervision, of course, but – I think it might help.”

The murmur of general conversation – the inevitable whispering and joking that the occasion demanded – was dying away. People were moving back from the main doorway; there was a quiet gasp – or two – quickly lost in a respectful hush. Koenig turned from the table, feeling his heart leap with one of those unexpected moments of joy. Such a small thing to take such delight in.

Such a momentous moment for the whole of Alpha.

Slowly, and with hesitant steps, Professor Victor Bergman moved into the room, clad – once again – in his familiar uniform. Someone had found him a cane – or perhaps had made him one - cut from a length of wood, shaped and polished with care. Julio Juventus hovered in the background, ready to step in if help were needed – but the guest of honour’s free hand was held in a proprietary grip; young Jackie Crawford led the way, grinning up at his company with pride and delight. 

The crowd held its breath as he limped the short distance to Koenig’s side. The smile beneath Bergman’s neatly trimmed was a little strained, but the eyes above it were twinkling with pleasure; this was a moment they’d _all_ been longing for, yet had never believed possible.

Somewhere, in the background, someone started to applaud. Others began to join in; someone whistled, someone else cheered – and then the whole room was doing so, laughing and applauding with unrestrained delight. Bergman blinked, looking round in astonishment. Emotion chased across his features – a complex mix of disconcertion, recognition, realisation, delight and embarrassment that threatened, just for a moment, to overwhelm him. Jackie tugged worriedly at his hand, and it gave him a chance to look down, to recover his equilibrium and finally respond with a nod of acknowledgement and a warm, if somewhat wry, smile.

Koenig grinned, holding up his hand for silence. 

“A toast!” he proposed, accepting the cup that Helena handed to him. “”To Alpha.” He lifted the cup high, including everyone present in his sweeping glance. “To her past, and to her future. To friends lost and to new lives gained. To Project Haven, and the children who will play in its gardens. But most of all …” He paused, bringing the cup down again and turning his head to meet Bergman eye to eye. “To an old friend – who has finally come home.”

He tilted the cup and took a deep swallow, suddenly needing to hide the tremble that threatened his voice. The fruit punch did, indeed, pack a punch; it was the perfect balance between tart and sweet, as smooth as honey and packed with flavour. The crowd was cheering again; cups were being filled and passed round, the toast being echoed and reaffirmed with warm smiles and lots of hugs. There were more than a few gasps of pleasure too, as the sweetness of the juice reached taste buds starved of such luxuries for years.

In amongst the hubbub, Koenig ceremoniously handed Bergman his new commlock. Jackie, equally ceremoniously, helped him clip it onto his belt – and then was swept up and whirled away by his mother, who sat him down on a nearby table and handed him his first ever cup of real fruit juice. Koenig threw a questioning glance at Helena, but she smiled and nodded a reassuring _it’s okay._

He didn’t get a chance to see how the boy reacted: someone called for a speech, and the cry was taken up with enthusiasm. Koenig had to wave his hand for silence a second time.

“That’s enough,” he called good naturedly. “Give the man a chance. How about it, Victor? Something you’d like to say?”

Bergman had been watching the swirling interplay of the crowd, drinking in what had to be the unfamiliar sense of company. He turned at Koenig’s question and lifted his hand, running his fingers thoughtfully through his beard.

“Well,” he said, “It’s good to be back. Do you think someone could find me a chair?”


	12. Epilogue: She who save a single soul, saves the universe.

Extract from the Primary Data files of Moonbase Alpha:  
Records of Project Haven: Year 6 – 2212 days Post Breakaway.  
Personal log: Professor Victor Bergman, Project Director

* * *

A month later Bergman limped out of the Alphan catacombs and re-entered the Haven caverns, marking his first official visit to his new domain. Helena had finally bowed to pressure, both from him and from Jo Webster, to allow him to visit the project in person; her only conditions had been for him to take frequent rests, and not to over tire himself. He was more than happy to do the first, and was hoping that he wouldn’t do the second, although he suspected that Webster had strict instructions to make sure of it.

He was just glad to … well, stretch his legs was probably not the phrase to use, since his twisted limb made that a little difficult, but perhaps escape for a while. He’d forgotten how confined Alpha could be; even more so now than before, since everything was safely tucked underground, and a man couldn’t even look out at the stars without seeking permission to do so. The low gravity was another source of relief. He was adjusting back to Earth norms, but it was a slow process; he _did_ tire easily on Alpha, weighted down by his own body and struggling to redevelop the necessary muscles that would make him feel at home. In the Havens – for the time being still naturally at Lunar gravity - he could practically dance.

He wasn’t going to, of course. But it did mean that his cane would be less of a necessity and hopefully more of a handy adjunct to his curiosity; he’d already made a mental note of its exact length, since that would assist with any measurements he might want to take.

The first cavern, and two or three of those beyond, had been totally cleared by now, leaving only bare soil, the dry ditch that marked the original water course, and the sculptural remains of the plant’s root system - some partially sunken in the dark ground and others rising overhead like the ribs of a long abandoned ship. _Leave her bones,_ he’d advised when they’d asked if removing them were an option. He didn’t know how integral they might be to the stability of the caverns, but he did know that removing them would be a huge amount of work for little gain. The plant had woven them throughout her kingdom, defining her existence and anchoring her presence; their wood was remarkably dense, as solid and as heavy as mahogany. 

Webster, taking the lead, leapt easily onto the top curve of the primary root where it snaked across the cavern floor. The teams had taken to using then as roadways, the smooth surface of the wood providing an easier way to traverse the caves than a slow slog through muddy soil or tangled undergrowth. Bergman had been secretly amused by this admission; he‘d done much the same while he’d been living there.

He paused beside what had once been a small pond, and took a thoughtful look around.

With the lighter vines and the general vegetation swept away, it was much easier to identify the source of the pervading light. The uncovered walls were coated with a thin, luminescent layer of some kind; it was starting to fade in places, small patches of darkness growing like mould and dimming the general illumination. The light itself was chemical, rather than bioluminescence, so it would continue to glow for some considerable time, but the replacement of the light source was high on the list of Project priorities - somewhere after the installation of a small reactor to provide local power, and in among the plans for the gravitic motors to adjust gravity in key areas and the laying down of pipes to re-enable the circulation of the water courses. He’d been giving it some thought and had sketched a few designs – including the possibility of having cyclic systems that would imitate the flow of night into day and back again. The idea had intrigued and delighted his team; if they’d had any reservations about his role in and contribution to the Project they’d been long since left behind. 

“Want a hand up, Professor?” Webster was smiling down at him from his vantage point. Bergman shook his head.

“In a minute, Jo. Just – need to get the feel of the place.”

He’d been here in another lifetime; living in a waking dream, filled with imaginary voices and days that had blurred into endless, uncountable hours. He frowned, trying to understand what it was that was bothering him The place was strange, and it was familiar, all at the same time. The scent was evocative, but the sound … the sound was completely wrong …

Webster had moved away, joining the other members of the team where they were allocating activities for the latest group of volunteers. Marling was in charge of one cohort, and Maxymiew the other; he’d been assigned to Haven duties after a great deal of thought – and the realisation that confronting him with the truth of the situation in the caverns would go a long way towards dispelling the myths he’d been seduced by. His first assumption had been that it would be punishment - with plenty of reason, given the way he’d acted – and he’d accepted that with guilty grace. But now he was as enthusiastic as the rest of them, caught by the vision of possibilities, and the very real opportunities the caverns offered them. 

Bergman turned and perched himself against the surface of the root, content to sit and wait until the others were ready to move on. He stirred the soil in front of him idly, using the end of his cane, and put out his other hand to steady himself, resting it against the smooth curve of the wood.

Sound murmured from under his fingers, a slow swell of response to his touch; it trembled through the root and rang out across the cavern like the note from a distant bell. Startled, he lifted his hand, and the note died away, echoing softly from the curving roots overhead as it did so.

Webster came back at a run, no longer _on_ the root, but beside it. He slewed to a balletic halt beside his Project Director, who was staring at his hand with a decided sense of wonder in his eyes.

“It’s never done that before,” Webster said, looking a little shaken.

“No,” Bergman breathed abstractedly. “But … she promised me …”

He put his hand down again, splaying his fingers wide. The strange music soared a second time, no longer a single note, but several, layered in harmonious tones. It hung in the air like a benediction, like a chorus of holy voices, chanting blessings and praising their god. Bergman frowned, concentrated – and the primary note dropped down half an octave, the tremulous harmonies following suit. 

The frown became a fascinated grin. A moment later, the music echoed it, rippling with a note of laughter. Webster started to open his mouth, took a breath, closed it, and snorted his own small note of amusement. The sound wasn’t really loud – barely a background hum – but in the otherwise silent caverns it had rung out with perfect clarity.

“I think she likes me,” Bergman smiled, lifting his hand away and looking across the cave towards the rest of the complex. “I wonder if that’s a localised effect, or a more general one? What do you think, Jo?”

Webster glanced back at the rest of his team, and their flock of volunteers. “We can soon find out, Professor. Andi!”

Marling peeled away from her group and began loping towards them with ease of long practice. “Yah?” she asked as she approached.

“Run down into … oh, umm – SP14 will do. Click us a signal when you get there and we’ll see how far the music carries.”

“You do that?” Marling glanced at Bergman, who nodded. “Cool. Will do, Jo. Send my lot after me. We can head out from there.”

She hopped up onto the root and skipped away with long, measured steps; she, like the rest of her fellow miners, was well accustomed to moving in the low gravity and knew how to use it to best advantage. Some of the volunteers were still bouncing on their heels, disconcerted by the difference it made.

“Did it – do that … before?” Webster inquired. Bergman – watching Marling’s departure – took a moment to decipher the question.

“I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment’s thought. “She sang all the time, but - sometimes she sang to _me_ , rather than merely humming to herself. And there were times … a response, a reaction …” He tailed off, frowning over the elusive memory. So much of his time in the caverns was blurred, even his clearest memories disjointed and misplaced. “But I know she promised – promised she would sing for me. Afterwards. I didn’t believe her,” he admitted, a little sadly. “I thought we’d die together. Share her ending. But then John came …” He sighed, and abandoned the effort to remember. It was just another of those questions concerning the plant that there was no way to answer. “Has anybody else touched a root barehanded like that? Haven’t you been working in gloves most of the time?”

“The clearance teams have.” Webster stepped forward, pulling his own glove off as he did so. They’d abandoned the need for full protective suits once they’d been confident that the atmosphere was stable and the risk of a breach was low – but everyone had been issued with a Tyvek oversuit, sturdy work boots and a pair of protective, leatherette gloves. Bergman hadn’t bothered to put his on: he wasn’t going to be hauling down vines or grubbing up the undergrowth - and if anything else in the caverns was going to hurt him it would have done so years before.

The younger man’s hand made contact with the wood, his fingers splaying out, just as Bergman had done earlier. _Something_ trembled through the root, but died away almost immediately. There was no sound. Just a vague and uncertain vibration. 

“Looks like I don’t have the touch,” Webster decided, with the vaguest hint of disappointment. “There is _something_ – but it’s faint, and I doubt I’d have noticed it earlier. Never thought about the music after the original fell silent, but … it had to have a purpose, right? Plants don’t – just sing to themselves, do they?”

“Not on Earth, no. But this one?” The Professor shrugged his ignorance. “You may have a point, though,” he frowned, thinking about it. “If it were programmed to respond to the presence of complex, mobile organisms …”

“Then – maybe you’ve been … I dunno. Tuned in, or registered as authorised in some way. Like a fingerprint recognition system.”

Bergman smiled. “You after my job, Jo? Or just want to join my advanced classes? Actually,” he said, “that sounds entirely feasible. Physical contact – bio activated interaction - triggering a pre-programmed response.” He held the thought for a beat, then added: “I did say she liked me.”

Webster grinned at him. “I certainly hope so,” he half-joked. “I’m not sure you’d still be here if she didn’t.”

“Mm,” the Professor responded abstractedly, acknowledging the sentiment without pursuing the thought any further. There were some things he really didn’t want to consider too deeply – let alone discuss them. He dropped his hand back to the surface of the root, smiling as the music hummed in response. “You know,” he breathed, “that would sound grand down in the central cavern. Like a choir. The sound of distant voices and the ringing of temple bells.” The quote tumbled out with ease, and he completed it with a quiet smile. “Marking the hour. The hour of silence, when we hear the fountains. The hour that dreams are brighter and winds colder …”

“Ah!” Webster murmured softly, clearly recognising the reference. “Thy dawn, oh Master of the World. Thy dawn.”

Bergman had been miles – or maybe years – away. He refocused his attention with mild surprise. “Someone,” he said, “gave you a classical education.”

“’Fraid not,” the man admitted, a little sheepishly. “But I was in a production of _Hassan,_ while I was at college. Made quite an impression on me.”

“Obviously. And a good thought. Remind me to add theatre to our list of potential facilities when we get back. As well as, or in place of our concert hall, I wonder? Maybe we’ll need more than one – let’s pencil in a central stage, and one in the round ...”

Webster stepped back, flung out his arms, grinned, and gave him an exaggerated bow. “Thy wish, oh Master of the Havens, is my command. For thee, the wagons of the world are drawn. And one or two lunar buggys as well, I should think.”

His commlock beeped, and his grin widened. “Andi’s in position, Professor. Want to start our first concert?”

Bergman returned the grin, dipping his hand down to do just that. The music swelled in response. It ran through the caverns, echoing and re-echoing, filling the empty silences with joyful sound. Under the caress of her beloved companion, the song of the last of Earth’s Gaia Trees rang out from its heartwood - finally welcoming the heirs of its long forgotten creators to the home it had spent millennia preparing for them …


End file.
